Life Harsh
by Soulburnt
Summary: After the battle against the Senior Partners, Angel and Spike unwittingly fall into company with an actual angel. This is a prequel to 'Life Hard.'
1. No Heroes

**Life Harsh**

⸹

DISCLAIMER: These characters and the Buffyverse do not belong to me; this is just me bringing my own (sub)text.

Summary: After the fight against the Senior Partners, Angel and Spike encounter an angel unawares.

[Author's Note: This can be read as a standalone, but was originally the first chapters of "Life Hard." This story prominently features an AU character, Spike's 'guardian angel,' and is the full, leisurely story of how a 'do-over' reality slipped past the notice of the Powers That Be. It will shed some light on what happened in the intermission after Cleveland in that tale. For your patience, gentle reader, you'll also get loads of fun Angel-Spike interaction and backstory.

I wrote this, along with "Life Hard," because Spike got no encouragement (except maybe from Giles, once in season four) during his redemption arc. I figured, if anyone ever would help him, it would be women. In "Life Hard," three women give him a nudge along the way. This is the story of the only one of those women who actually had any power, and her power was sharply constrained.

I cut these chapters because I worried that Spike's avenging angel was far too Mary Sue – both Spike and Angel like her, Gunn likes her, and even Buffy sorta likes her sometimes. Big, blinking warning sign.

Then some amazing readers generously took the time to say they liked the other two women who helped Spike and that they were interested in reading the cut chapters. This is just one reason I'm so grateful to you, the readers who keep the Buffyverse torch burning bright twenty years in. The best decision I made all last year was to (deep breath) finally share my super-long "Life Hard" story. So, I've cut, rewritten, and beaten most of the suspicious behavior out of the character to post this prequel.

Just some warnings: the prologue features the three main characters as I feel they were at the end of broadcast canon in BtVS and Ats: hardened, not given to self-examination, and definitely bleaker. The main pairing here is eventually B/A, not B/S as in the rest of the work.]

⸹

 **No Heroes**

⸹

[Chapter Note: Using dual names violates the K.I.S.S. principle (Keep It Simple, Stupid), but in most instances in the Buffyverse when someone leaves their humanity, a new name marks the transition – e.g., Aud/Anyanka and Liam/Angelus. Here, Halfrek was once Cicely, and Sarah was once Emma. And I gave Spike his human surname years before 'Pratt' was established.

Vengeance demons and avenging angels are beyond the limits of linear time and single realities, and this opening chapter skips around their very wide world. We start with two of those beings having coffee at a lovely place and time, then go to the reality that was most likely to occur after the close of AtS (canon here is what was broadcast; the story was written before the comics). There is a peek into a dimension where angels get their rest, before heading back to that bleak, most-likely reality. After this chapter ends, the story will solidly be in one place, where an angel will try to create a new, happier reality.]

⸹

Paris

September 1923

⸹

"I think it was a convergence," Halfrek said, a tiny cup of strong coffee poised halfway to her lips.

"A… convergence?" her companion asked, as the waiter at the outdoor café presented a cup of coffee for her, too. " _Merci_."

"Um-hm." Halfrek nodded in agreement with herself, dark curls bouncing. "A convergence of mystical energy that affected everyone there. I don't know exactly which party or gathering it was, since it was always the same faces every time, it seemed, but I think it was the one where Richard read William's poetry aloud."

The other woman's voice was cool. "At Daphne's. She swore it would be the last time she let Richard set foot in her house." She took a sip from her own cup before continuing. "I remember that one."

Halfrek raised her eyebrows. "Yes, you would, wouldn't you? You died of typhoid fever not long after that."

"Scarlet," her companion corrected her.

"Really, Sarah," Halfrek said, "no need to be so stiff with me." She leaned across the small table to the other woman. "We've known each other since we were human."

"We were hardly good friends then," Sarah said, "and now we're on opposite..." Then she sighed a bit. "I'm sorry. You're right, of course." Her voice softened. "If I had known what your father was doing to you… well, I don't know exactly what I would have done. Gotten you out of there, somehow."

Halfrek's smile froze when she realized the apology was not meant for being snippy, but for having this knowledge. The veins beneath her skin became more prominent. She could almost hear that voice again, always low, always whispering, telling her things in the darkness of her small room. "There's no other man good enough for you, my darling Cecily, no man who's not beneath you. No, you're Daddy's good girl. Just Daddy's." And then his attention had turned to her younger sisters, and he never seemed to look at her after that, never came to her –

Her skin became flawless again. The being she was sharing coffee with at this charming café was more powerful than she was; it was the only thing that kept her from lashing out. She wasn't Cecily Underwood anymore. And her negligent father was very dead. She unconsciously touched the pendant at her neck for reassurance.

"Thank you, Emm – er, Sarah." Halfrek managed this with a fair amount of grace. "I know you would have tried. You ever were the crusader type. It was a different era, though." Their eyes met for an instant, and they shared a poignant smile, remembering.

"You were saying," Sarah offered, lifting her cup, "a convergence?"

"Oh!" Halfrek gave a silvery laugh, glad to change the topic. "Yes. I mean, how else can you explain three of us, out of – what? thirty people? – no longer being mortal? The odds against it are tremendous, unless there was a convergence."

Sarah frowned, and her cup rattled slightly against the saucer. "Three of us? Someone else chose the active afterlife?"

Halfrek raised a delicate eyebrow and put her hand to her throat once again. "You didn't know about William?"

"William?" she echoed. "Pippa's cousin William or the other one, William Gale?"

"Pippa's cousin. How could you not have known?" Halfrek asked, gesturing widely. "I mean, your people have all the knowledge."

"Halfrek, I'm a celestial child, the equivalent of a babe in nappies," Sarah said, with some exasperation. "The things I don't know, that I still can't comprehend are –"

"There's that humility your kind are so fond of."

"Well… yes. But never mind that. What did William choose to do?"

"Choose… I doubt that choice had anything to do with it. I saw him just after the turn of the century, and I've been keeping up with his career for my own amusement. He's a vampire now, and quite a strong one."

"Vam – William's a vampire?"

"Well, yes. Order of Aurelius. They're quite vicious, as you know." Halfrek's eyes slid over her companion. As Emma, she had mousy brown hair and unfashionable brown eyes hidden behind spectacles, a human easy to overlook if one was unaware of her wealth. Now she had the striking, colorless diamond eyes of the pure. As to anything else… even Halfrek couldn't quite pin down the particulars of hair or mouth or shape. Sometimes the hands seemed to be holding a blazing sword instead of a cup. In fact, she wasn't sure how she recognized her little chum. Perhaps it was only because the avenging angel allowed it. She wondered what their waiter saw sitting in the opposite chair.

Sarah turned the sharp gaze away, not seeing the lovely French women who hurried past the café wearing the daring, comfortable fashions the two immortal beings had been discussing approvingly only minutes ago. William Withorn-Allgood had been the first cousin of her best friend in life, Philippa. He was one of the kindest men of her living acquaintance, determined to see the good in every situation. And since he was also rather timid, how had he ever encountered a vampire?

"He killed a Slayer during the Boxer Rebellion, if you can imagine." Halfrek nattered on, beginning to feel nervous at her companion's odd silence. "Quite the coup for a vampire that young. Who would have thought, at the time, when he was all about taking care of his mother and writing –"

A hand shot out to grasp the vengeance demon's slim wrist, interrupting the flow of words. Power in the steel grip thrummed just below the human level of hearing. "William was made a vampire? You're sure?"

Halfrek nodded, her curls bouncing again as she verified this.

"But," Sarah said, relinquishing her grip on the other being, "but he was a good man."

"I suppose he was," Halfrek agreed, confused and fearful. She couldn't help herself; she rubbed her wrist. "He said as much when he declared himself to me…" Her voice trailed off when those diamond eyes found hers again, sharp, glittering like sunlight on water. "Did… did you have a _tendre_ for William?" There was a bite of malicious satisfaction in her tone.

"He was a good man," Sarah repeated. She stood abruptly. "I must be leaving. It was lovely to see you, Halfrek. Please do reconsider the path you've chosen." The being reached out and, in addition to the money left on the table, touched their waiter between the shoulderblades. He heard one of the many church bells in the city give a solemn 'dong,' and his choice of whether to take his day's earnings to the gaming tables became quite clear. His daughters needed new winter coats much more than he needed another losing night.

"We'll have to get together again," Halfrek called as dimensional reality snapped like a rubber band into the space her companion had just vacated.

But they never did.

⸹

Rome

May 2004

⸹

"Buffy!" Willow was calling the name even before she finished materializing.

Uncurling from the Immortal's lap, Buffy sat up on the edge of the leather couch. They were in the VIP lounge of a dance club, and no one else could possibly have found her here. "Wil? What is it?" Worry flashed through the hazel eyes, along with a tiny spark of anticipation.

Focusing on her to the exclusion of the beautiful, fearful people backing off to the edges of the room, Willow held out her hand, obviously intending for Buffy to take hold. "Battle, big one, in L.A.," she said, after an odd moment of hesitation.

Buffy grasped her hand, going pale. "Angel?"

"Buffy," the Immortal said impatiently. "What is this about?"

She saw Willow nod even as her attention went back to the handsome, older man. Things had been different, somehow, since a week ago, when Buffy had slain some demons that had been trying to harm him. She still loved him, but there was less passion and more routine as she fit herself into his life. "I'm sorry, Andros. I have to leave."

He met her eyes. "I wish you would stay."

A frown settled on her brow. "I'm the Slayer," Buffy said gently. "I have to."

"There are other slayers."

She stared at him, then simply shook her head and turned to Willow. "Let's go."

Then they were nowhere at all as they teleported. As powerful as she was, not even Willow could diminish time and space to nothing. For now, they were in a bubble of calm as everything blurred past them. The redhead turned sorrowful eyes to her friend. "Buffy… you know how the Coven monitors magic? This was already happening when they contacted me. Most of it has already happened." Despite finishing the sentence, it seemed as though she trailed off.

"What happened?" It was a demand, but her voice was faint and full of dread.

Willow closed her eyes for a moment, gathering her strength. She squeezed her best friend's hand. "Angel is gone, Buffy. I'm sorry."

"How?" It was all she could manage through numb lips.

Despite already spinning powerful magicks, Willow pulled more from within herself and showed the Slayer the information the Coven had given her. Against the side of the bubble, slightly curved and distorted around the edges, they saw the image of a darkened alleyway and mounds of bodies, the bodies of demons, piled everywhere. In one corner crouched a dark shape that Buffy had learned to distinguish from shadows years ago, holding a human body in his arms.

Angel was sobbing, his head thrown back as he held Charles Gunn's dead form against his chest. "Will," he said, speaking to the empty sky. "Oh, God, Will."

Another shadow moved behind him, a huge, malevolent shape. It was, Buffy saw with a start, a dragon, quite possibly the dragon that had soared into her world the night she leapt from a tower and died. Mortally wounded and lurching to one side, it still advanced on the oblivious vampire with stealth and quickness. Lifting its head for the last time, it pulled fire from deep within its belly, spewing it over the dark-haired man as it died. Then there was nothing, no vampire, no human, and the dragon collapsed into the empty space, falling lifelessly with an oddly graceful roll of its neck.

"I'm so sorry."

She heard Willow's words from a long distance away, despite the fact that they were side-by-side. Angel was dead; she watched as the fire died away around the dragon's body, just one more corpse in the alley. Her first love was gone, really gone, no coming back this time.

It wasn't as bad as the first time.

It wasn't as bad as the other one.

"That's why the Coven contacted me," Willow said, "because he was calling for me."

"No," she said slowly. "He wasn't." Then her eyes widened. "Willow," her voice urgent with a flash of Slayer's intuition, "is there more? From earlier?"

"I-I guess." Looking at the Slayer curiously, Willow inclined her head slightly at the images, which began to flow in reverse, like a video rewinding. She had expected Buffy to take it much harder.

The battle was a blur, not focused on any particular combatant. They saw Angel pulling aside dead demons, digging for Gunn's body, saw him inflict the killing blow to the dragon's heart. They watched as Gunn, his front already dark with blood, crumpled under a slash of claws from a lumbering beast that hardly seemed to be able to function under earth's physical laws. Angel again, moving through the hordes with a long sword, fighting alongside a woman with long blue hair, a woman who was a better warrior than any slayer. Then Buffy saw what she had not dared believe she would see: a flash of platinum.

"There!"

Willow nodded her head, and the evidence of magic captured by the Coven began to unreel for them again, this time showing in the mayhem a wounded figure fighting with two knives, all black except for the contrast of pale skin and improbably blond hair.

"Oh my God," Willow breathed. "It can't be."

Three demons fell beneath his blades, and Spike laid his head back and roared a challenge. It was answered by more than a dozen screaming creatures that resembled extremely large spider monkeys. Human features changed into fierce demon face so he could use fangs as well as blades. Spike went down beneath them, and after a while, there was a small movement as the demons fell into a space that was no longer occupied by anything more substantial than dust. Two of the demons rose from the fight, and another dragged itself painfully away.

"Will!" Angel's voice roared, and he moved into the image, the sword felling the simian demons who remained. "No! Will! Where are you, boy?"

Willow's eyes widened. "He was calling for Spike, for William the Bl–" Her voice died, the image disappeared, and she turned her incredulous gaze to Buffy. "Did you know?"

The Slayer shook her head, tears falling now.

It took another minute to arrive at the alley behind the Hyperion, and the carnage was greater than the limited view the Coven had supplied. Dumbfounded, the two Sunnydale natives kept their hands clasped together. This was worse than anything they had seen, and they had seen so much.

Oddest of all was the silence. "They're all dead," Willow said, looking everywhere to see if this could really be true. "They killed every one of these… things."

"Such a champion," the Slayer agreed, smiling despite the tears that still streamed down her face. "Both of them. Champions." She turned away from Willow suddenly, interposing her slender body between the witch and the one other moving creature there, a being the Slayer had not sensed until it was behind them.

"You fought alongside Angel," Buffy said, addressing the woman with blue hair politely, even as her hands came halfway up in a defensive posture.

The woman tilted her head to one side, facing away from them. "I felt rage and wished to expend this emotion on the armies of my enemies, on the minions of those responsible for Wesley's death."

"Wesley Wyndham-Pryce?" Willow asked, her face falling into sorrowful lines once again. "Wesley, too?"

"They are all gone." It was as if the blue-haired woman was not answering the question, just stating a fact to herself. Then she turned toward the two other women, as though registering them for the first time.

Willow gasped. "Fred?"

"I am Illyria, Battle-God. This shell was called Fred," she agreed coldly. "Shall I use it to kill you, as I have killed so many tonight?"

Buffy was the one who replied. "I am the Slayer," she said, equally cold, "and friend to those you fought alongside. Wesley was my Watcher, a long time ago. Angel… I loved Angel. A-and I met Charles Gunn last summer. Fred, too." She licked her lips. "And there was someone else…."

"The white-haired one," Illyria supplied. "He was worthy to be my pet."

Buffy bristled. "Spike was no one's pet."

The alien voice seemed to soften. "It is a high honor I bestow. He fought far beyond what limits his physical form imposed on him."

"How…" Willow shook her head and tried again, unable for a moment to get her mind around anything except the fact that Angel had called her for help a couple of months ago, and it had been something about Fred. But Angel had been working for the wrong side. Hadn't he? She made herself focus. "How could Spike be here?"

"Angel was the ruler," Illyria shrugged, "and he had killed all his family, as is proper, except for one son, who was loyal."

"No," Willow protested, "Spike wasn't Angel's son. I mean, Angel was, like, his grandfather," she admitted, "but they hated each other."

Illyria shrugged again. "The white-haired one never let Angel go into battle alone. He was the better warrior, the ruler's champion. I do not know the love or hate, only that it was his role."

Buffy closed her eyes at that. "What happened here?" She made herself look around the alley once again, where she would never find her dead.

"The one named Angel provoked a fight with those who styled themselves the Senior Partners." She tilted her head to the side, a gesture that sharply reminded Buffy of Spike. "They were consuming him slowly, as shrikes pick at carrion flesh. He chose open battle, befitting a warrior-king."

Angel, a warrior-king. God, Buffy thought through a haze of pain, what had happened in the year since she had seen Angel, grinning at her across the Preacher's cloven body? "Were you his champion, too?" Her voice was harsher than she intended.

Illyria turned her face so she could stare fully at the Slayer. "I remained in his kingdom because I was… attached to Wesley." The blue visage and fathomless eyes went to the nearby buildings. "Angel's enemies were mine." She looked back. "Angel is no more, but I find that his memory is still with me, as is my Wesley's." She lowered her head, her gaze on Willow. "And I will avenge my loss."

With a single, drawn-out moan, Willow crumpled to her knees. A blur of heat rippled between the blue creature and the red-haired witch. Half-crouching to support her, Buffy growled at Illyria, "Stop it! Whatever you're doing, stop it!"

"It is sufficient," Illyria said. Turning on her heel, she disappeared into a sudden flare of light.

"Willow?" Buffy asked. "What's wrong? Are you okay?"

"She took my magicks," Willow slurred, her face pale. "All of them." She looked up at the face that had defined the idea of 'hero' for her since a singular day in high school when a pretty blond girl had chosen her over Cordelia Chase. "Oh, God, Buffy. She took everything."

⸹

Sarah closed the book and reshelved it absently in the ether that obligingly became a shelf for a moment. The most likely outcome for the vampire that had taken William's life was an oddly noble one, and the circumstances led to a rebalancing of powers that should not be loose in the reality that had seen her own birth. A god was removed, an overly powerful witch was constrained, and souled vampires were stricken from the equation; a tidy solution that could only have been conceived by the Powers That Be. She shook her head and went to seek audience with the General.

"She was right," Ibrahim said, frowning after she told him about the meeting with Halfrek. "There was a convergence. I'm not sure I'm comfortable that a baby vengeance demon figured that out."

"Halfrek's only a demon, sir. All they can do is model themselves after us and, well, destroy things." Sarah also frowned as she regarded her superior. "What is a vengeance demon except a pale copy of an avenging angel? It's why I try to keep up with her dealings."

"Don't take the balance of power for granted, child. I appreciate your confidence in the supremacy of good over evil, but it's all in the struggle, you know." He sighed. "However, the demon Halfrek was correct about the convergence. Each of the thirty-four young people at that party was dead within two years."

"Including William," Sarah said, reiterating her main point. Persistence was a valued trait among angels.

"Yes, and he saw to the deaths of three of the others."

"Not William," she disagreed fiercely. "The demon that took possession of his body. I humbly ask again, Ibrahim, let me go engender its death, to avenge his."

Ibrahim gave her a shrewd look. Here, at a dimensional nexus, where Time lay heavily over even mystical beings, it was rare to find one who wasn't slow and solemn. "You have personal feelings about this matter?"

"No. Send another to avenge his loss of free will."

"You do have personal feelings," Ibrahim sighed. He slid the same book she had been reading from a sudden shelf, though, and began refreshing his knowledge of this one case. The bookshelf faded back into the unfocused whiteness around them as he read.

"He was a good man," Sarah said, persistence beginning to sound like stubbornness. "He deserves to be at peace, not have this evil creature performing foul deeds wearing his mortal coil, sullying his name."

"Well," Ibrahim said slowly, "here's the thing: a lot of the human remains in this vampire. Destroying it would not avenge William Withorn-Allgood; it would merely destroy him." He looked at the young being with a good deal of kindness, even as he said the words.

She didn't understand. "Do you mean that William… his soul is trapped with the demon who killed him?"

"No, child. Nor was his soul at rest. It was – and is – between dimensions."

"There's… between?" Sarah's head turned to the side, as if she were resisting. "Dimensions crowd in to fill all that is probable or possible. There cannot be a no-place."

Ibrahim gave her a patient look. "In time, as you're able to understand metaphysical law better, you'll learn about improbability, which allows 'between.' For now, just take it on faith." He waited until she gave a faint smile at the workplace pun. "Let me illustrate how this works, at least in William's case: he killed his mother shortly after his death."

"No," Sarah whispered, shocked at this. "He wouldn't… he was devoted to her. You must see it isn't William anymore." Her clear eyes shone with tears. "Oh, Ibrahim, she was a fine soul! Such a–"

"Listen," Ibrahim commanded, holding up one hand. Power radiated out from him for a moment. Contrite, Sarah fell quiet. "The vampire was eager to tear her flesh, drink the maternal blood. But it was William who drained her, killed her, then sired her as a vampire, the son fathering the mother." He shook his head a little at the oddity.

"But that's… worse."

"It was gentle, not vicious. His intention was to save her, Sarah. He was saving her from consumption. He'd just learned vampires don't harbor illness and didn't want her to be sick any longer."

The young being stared at him for a long time. He touched her mind lightly with his as she pondered the new knowledge and the horrifically flawed logic, flashing on her memories of the human William and the unbelievable fact of a demon trying to 'save' a beloved human. There was nothing selfish in her interest, Ibrahim was relieved to find. 'Kind' was the word she most strongly associated with William. Her righteous anger that the human had been victimized even beyond his murder was her primary motivation, as it should be. Reassured, he waited until she formed a question, continuing his perusal of the slim volume.

It was a question of faith, of course. "Does this mean that… demons can be saved, too?"

Ibrahim gave her a small, sad smile. "The terrible answer is yes, Sarah. It is not impossible."

"But that's not terrible," she contradicted him. "That's wonderful!" She looked ready to take up her sword immediately and coerce demons to repent.

He forced himself not to smile at her youthful energies, not to be patronizing. "It is wonderful," he agreed, "but the cost is terrible. Even we have limited resources. Our mission is very specific: avenge the loss of free will. When the Creator, in infinite wisdom, allowed free will to souled beings, the Creator's own power diminished. I command but one army of avenging angels, there are a hundredfold more of guardian angels, even the Archangels still take the field… but all of us together cannot correct every evil. The price of free will, as you know.

"No vampire has ever been saved. This one might have been, though of course the soul will be safe." He met her eyes squarely. "There's one other with a soul and, with so many possible paths, we're still waiting to see which way that cat will jump. Not one vampire, in all the history of your dimension of origin. And vampires are human-demon hybrids, among the weakest, the least demon-like.

"If I allowed my army to focus on saving demons, then there would be billions of souled beings who do not get the help, the justice they need. It's a work of art to save a demon, Sarah, but it is a greater joy when a being of free will chooses good. And, frankly, it's easier."

She gave him a small smile. "I chose the good, and gave up free will. I submit to your judgment, sir. Use me where you find need."

Ibrahim put his palm on her head for a moment. "Child, you are a delight as well as a sharp sword of heaven. However, it is in the flow of the Creator's still considerable will that you learned of this from the demon Halfrek. The Powers That Be have not kept balance and have roughly restored it in this instance. Their methods were cruder than usual, stealing free will by allowing a portal to open for some overdemons who covet that reality, something that must be corrected. Perhaps it's time..." Trailing off, he glanced down at his book again, a tiny frown crossing his face.

"Time?" Sarah raised a rather human eyebrow at the word, standing as they did on a nexus of all points of interdimensional possibility. Many of her kind were uneasy here. She liked it, though, the foggy whiteness a comfort after a short human life spent near the Thames.

He didn't answer her directly. "Some humans tap their potential during life, others only after death."

"Like Cecily and me?"

"Well, like you. Technically, Cecily never died. She transformed into the demon Halfrek upon accepting D'Hoffryn's offer and allowing her soul to be changed into her power center." Ibrahim's answer trailed away as he read a few more lines. "You were a souled being who reached for the divine at the moment of death."

"Is that what William did?"

Ibrahim frowned, wishing that he could explain to her so that she could understand. "It's much more complicated, but if he had a normal transition, perhaps he would have chosen the same sort of active afterlife as you. But choice was taken from him. A demon was forced into his body through his sire's blood, and his soul had to leave. The… imprint it left, though, was quite strong, and it has made him into a singular vampire. For his soul to go to the spaces between dimensions, to simply wait and be, to delay heaven, he must have had great strength of character."

Sarah smiled. "I always thought he must, to keep with his poetry in the face of such adversity."

Ibrahim gave her another sharp look and this time probed the memories of her unconsciousness. The human William was there, along with dozens of other long-gone humans, like dreams kept in glass cages. While Emma had never had anything other than polite conversation with William, he had made a mark on her soul. The young angel was raw, not even really understanding why a soul, so fragile, was still the strongest power on most planes of existence. It wasn't the vengeance she had asked for, but it was a way to gently nudge things so that the balance of things would never become so skewed.

"I will assign this to you," he said abruptly. Ibrahim returned the book to a convenient bookshelf that promptly disappeared. "However, I must warn you that it's something… different."

"In what way?"

"In many ways, but there are only three which matter: the first is that, in this case, we are compelled to act, to try, though we may not succeed. It may be a waste of our energies, and there are other things in the balance that will go begging because of that. The second is, you must not destroy the demon. You will not be avenging, only serving the flow of the Creator's will."

She nodded solemnly. "As I gladly do in all things. And the third?"

"You will be under the purview of the Powers That Be."

The silence stretched out. "Ibrahim… they are scarcely more than I am. All they can do is balance good and evil, give a space for people to exercise free will. They're like the old Roman gods, or… squabbling children."

"They also serve the Creator," he chastised, then sighed. "They are very much like children, and I'm glad I am not responsible for teaching them. Anyway, you lived your entire existence as human with them watching out for…" He trailed off, uncertain.

"Earth."

"Yes, thank you."

She wanted to make sure that she understood. "You mean that I will no longer be under your protection?"

"I do." His voice was solemn, and he gave her back her thoughts. "Behind enemy lines, exactly so." His diamond-bright eyes met hers. "Know that you will always return here, child. The Powers That Be certainly have no control over that."

"They have little enough control, in any case," Sarah said sarcastically, but in a low tone that allowed him to overlook her impudence.

"Be still," he commanded, and placed his hand over her eyes. "Go to any likely reality where the vampire survives that battle. Work for fairness, seek the good, give love in greater measure than you hope to receive." Before he finished the words, the being Sarah began to diminish in mass, one that Ibrahim lost sight of when it became smaller than the nucleus of a helium atom. He felt the slight pop as she left the nexus.

She would return, but not for a long time, even on an interdimensional pivot point. He never considered retrieving the book to see the outcome. Fussing with details was a rookie mistake, one which the current Powers That Be had yet to grow out of. He had, though, and they would, too. Ibrahim sighed and stretched his aura, shoulders, and neck. He was even beginning to think that avenging was pointless, and he knew from experience that he was going to be kicked upstairs for that, once this latest epiphany truly took hold.

After all, he had once Been a Power.

⸹

"But," Buffy protested again, even though she could see Giles was beginning to be impatient with her, "there has to be some way to find out."

"Buffy," he said, taking off his glasses and rubbing his forehead, "there's no one left to ask. The building that housed the law firm is rubble; the people are gone from every branch across the world. I don't know what Angel was up to, only that either he turned on his colleagues at Wolfram and Hart, or that I was wrong all along about him joining their side. I don't know who or what the blue woman was who resembled Winifred Burkle. I don't know why Wesley was found dead in the same house as a notorious and equally dead demon warlock. I especially don't know how Spike could have been there at the last battle, apparently alive." He looked very put out. "Andrew knew he was in Los Angeles, from when we sent him out here to retrieve the insane girl, the slayer we overlooked in the asylum, and he never let on, the little–" He cut himself short, afraid he would blurt out that Spike had specifically asked the boy not to tell her. She was unhappy enough already. Who knew Andrew could keep a secret?

Buffy didn't nod, just slumped a little more where she sat on the edge of the hotel bed. His heart went out to her. Giles had persuaded the Coven to send him and Xander to Los Angeles, as well as to remove the thousands of dead demons. Video footage had gotten out, though, and he had Council operatives scrambling to come up with a horror movie script and an equally good story about filming it behind the Hyperion. Damage control was going to be a monumental task, and the Council had authorized a small fortune to buy the film from eyewitnesses. Willow, in shock at losing her powers, was in a room across the hall. Xander, thank God, was an absolute brick and was taking care of her.

Which meant Buffy's emotional needs fell to him. He sighed. "I'm sorry, my dear. Between Willow and the loss of Angel, I know you must be quite–"

"If he was alive," Buffy interrupted, her thoughts bubbling into speech, "he would have gotten in touch. Right?"

Giles frowned, surprised that her thoughts were on Spike. "Why would he?"

"Why?" The Slayer sputtered a little. "Why? Because we're his family!"

"We are?" He looked honestly perplexed. "Family? I wouldn't use that…" The Watcher put his glasses back on. "There's really no reason he would have contacted us."

"No reason?" There was a snarl in her voice that was reminiscent of the blond vampire. "He got his soul for me."

"He did," he tried, sighing, "in order to make amends for a terrible, terrible thing, if indeed there could be amends for such an act. What you and he…" Giles wished his glasses were off once more. "That had been over for a long time. It's true, he and Dawn had been close, but there was no love between them, not anymore."

"You're right," Buffy said, closing her eyes in defeat. "Not even Dawn… Xander never liked Spike much, even before he and Anya…" It was her turn to trail off. "And you tried to kill him."

"And you succeeded," Giles said, and was immediately sorry when he saw her face change. "Oh, Buffy, I truly, truly regret saying that. It has been a very trying day."

She shook her head, heedless of the tears tracking down her cheeks. "No, you're right. That amulet… I killed them both, didn't I?"

"You were doing your duty, my dear. That's all."

"My duty." Her voice was bitter. "Now I get to mourn them all over again." She rocked back on the edge of the bed, thinking of her mother as well as two singular vampires. "Grieve for my dead." Her eyes flashed with anger, as if Giles had not kept his silence. "And don't tell me not to, that they aren't worth it. If I don't grieve for them, who will?"

Closing his eyes, Giles sat down next to her and awkwardly rubbed her back. "I would never tell you not to grieve, Buffy. You've just had to so often in your life. I wish it were not so." After Spike had closed the Hellmouth, some spark inside Buffy had flickered back in existence. She began to live again because she felt the opportunity was paid for with blood. As much as he disliked the Immortal, Giles was grateful to him for bringing Buffy happiness, though that, too, seemed to be waning of late.

"I wish," she whispered, not leaning into him, "that I knew what happened."

"As do I." Giles dropped his hand, hesitated, then patted her knee. He loved her so much, but they had too much history to make expressing it an easy matter. "I fear it's just one of those things we'll never know the truth of."

⸹

Next Chapter: In the most likely reality, Spike and Angel get a ride to a hospital for Gunn after the battle behind the Hyperion.


	2. Shellshock

**Shellshock**

⸹

[Author's Note: This takes place in the 'most probable' reality rather than the one mentioned in the Prologue and starts right after the battle behind the Hyperion. Here, Illyria left her shell to kill all the demons that were behind the Hyperion and whatever might be left of her will not cross paths with our two vampires again. Wolfram and Hart is diminished, but functional.]

⸹

Los Angeles

May 2004

"In the lobby." Angel grunted, feeling his grasp on Gunn begin to go again. His hands were slippery with blood. He wasn't sure how much was his own.

"Right," Spike said shortly, adjusting his own grip on Gunn's shirt. He shot a look over the wounded man's drooping head at Angel. They made their halting way down the corridor into the dark lobby of the Hyperion, aiming for the circular sofa.

Angel let his sword clatter onto the tile and took Gunn's weight so he could lower him onto the cushions. "How you doing?" He looked into Charles' face, afraid there would be no answer.

"Peachy," Gunn replied in a whisper. He didn't open his eyes.

"Get the lights," Angel told Spike, not looking away from Gunn. He realized he'd taken the injured man's hand in his. Gunn's fingers didn't feel any warmer than his own.

"Yeah. Don't think our location is a state secret," Spike replied, glancing about for the switches. He walked over and turned èon the lights, palming the switches up four at a time. "Not judging from the size of the welcoming committee out back." Spike fished in his pockets, found a smoke. "A dragon, mate. I've never been close to anything near to like. Saw one from a distance the night B – the Slayer… Never close up, though." He didn't mention his suspicion that it was exactly the same dragon.

Angel looked up in time to watch Spike take the first long draw on his cigarette. The blond hair was dark with blood, and more was on his hands. Again, Angel couldn't tell how much of the blood belonged to Spike. He guessed he probably didn't look any better himself. He didn't mention that he was pretty sure the dragon was the failsafe that had been released from the Wolfram and Hart building to come after him.

Since he didn't want to look at his grandchild, Angel took advantage of the better light to examine Gunn. The human looked bad, but the sluss-sluss of blood and the beat of his heart was steady, if faint.

"Illyria," Spike said, taking another drag and shaking his head. "She saved us. She… incandesced."

Angel's eyebrows drew together at the word. "I would have said… exploded, in sort of a controlled way. That wasn't supposed… it shouldn't have been possible. My ears are still ringing."

"Yeah, well, she blew that dragon right where you needed it to be."

Angel glanced over at the discarded sword. He'd wiped it clean at some point out of habit. Despite everything, a smile passed across his face. "I saw you take out five demons with one move, Spike. I had to top that."

A puzzled expression crossed Spike's face, and he shot Angel another sharp look. "Um, okay. We're great warriors, the lot of us. Illyria, though… she took out a legion. Don't know I'd want to see what she could've done at full power." He lit another cigarette from the stub of the first. It was the first time Angel had ever seen him chain-smoke. "What now?"

"We've got to see to Gunn." He let go of Charles' hand and stood up, wincing from a wound on his thigh. "There's a doctor who's done some work for me in the past. His number should be in here." As Angel walked past the counter into the back office, he called over his shoulder. "Stay with him."

Spike took a last hit from his first cigarette, then flicked it onto the floor. He stepped on it carefully, grinding the butt into the marble with his boot, and started on the second smoke. Then he squared his shoulders and went to stand by Gunn, who was unconscious now. The makeshift bandages they'd wrapped around his torso were already stained with blood, clearly his own. Spike didn't like the smell of it. Odd, that. Death hadn't bothered him for decades. Then there had been Joyce, the news about Tara and Anya and the little girls, the potential slayers. Fred. Wesley, too, now, and probably Illyria. The Slayer didn't count. Neither did he. Grimacing at the pain from a couple of cracked ribs that had yet to knit, he hunkered down next to Gunn. "How's it going, then?"

No response. Charlie was alive; he knew that, of course, but not much more than alive. Sighing, he stood back up, looking toward Angel's old office. He could hear exasperation creeping into the other man's voice. Apparently, the conversation wasn't going well.

"Excuse me," said a voice behind him, accompanied by a belated knock on the door.

Spike swiveled around, his muscles tensing for another attack. No demonic horde, though. Just a young woman, alone and looking flustered as she stood inside the door. "Can I help you?" he asked, his voice harsh despite the neutral words.

"Um, Angel Investigations?" she asked, holding out a business card.

Spike strode to the door and took it from her hand, blocking her way into the lobby. He glanced down at the card. It was one of Angel's old cards, creased and worn around the edges. He fixed her with a cold stare. "Yeah?" His nose had been broken until a minute or so ago, and he didn't trust that her scent was human.

"You, um, help the helpless?" she asked, giving him a nervous smile. Darting a look at his matted hair, she took a step backward. He saw her nose wrinkle, smell no problem for her. God knew what various fluids were splattered on him.

"Not at – whatever-the-hell o'clock it is in the bloody morning," he replied, thrusting the card back at her. "Come back tomorrow."

She didn't take it. "Well, every time I've been in L.A. over the past few months, I've stopped by. This is the first time I've seen any lights on, so I thought I'd take a chance and drop in."

"Look, this isn't a good time." He lifted his cigarette to his mouth with his other hand and inhaled deeply. "Why don't you – "

"Dammit!" A portable phone flew out of the office behind them, closely followed by a glowering Angel. "He won't help. He said we're too dangerous." He kicked a chair into the wall. "What the hell good is the Hippocratic oath, anyway?" He ran a hand through his hair and struggled for a moment to regain his composure. "I can't think of anyone else, not that Wolfram and Hart won't have in their–" He stopped short, looking at the woman in the doorway.

Spike turned toward him. "Lady here has your business card." He held it up. "Angel Investigations. I guess she's helpless." Spike turned and gave the woman a tight smile, then flicked his cigarette butt past her, out into the night.

Her gaze jumped between the two of them, taking in the injuries and bloodstains. "Look," she said slowly, "I did come here for help, but y'all…" She gestured toward them, at a loss for words. "Can I help _you_ with anything?"

Spike snorted. "Not likely." He snatched her hand from her side and pressed the card into her palm. "Now, toddle on off, all right?" He put his hand on her shoulder and began to propel her out the door.

She ducked beneath his hand, giving him an annoyed look, and slid around him. "You're Mr. Angel?"

"Yeah," Angel replied warily. She was alone, wasn't much taller than Buffy, but size had nothing to do with deadliness in his world. He took in her red hair and the oversized flannel shirt she wore, her open face. He didn't trust her.

"I've heard good things about you, and the reason that I came here…" She hesitated, then plunged on. "I have a problem, but it isn't life-and-death. If I can help…" She gestured behind her. "I've got my rig out front; at the very least I could drop you at the emergency room. I mean, y'all look like you've been put through the wringer."

Behind her, Spike advanced silently. Angel caught his eye and shook his head just once. "The thing is, we can't really go to a hospital. Thanks for your offer, though. You've… just caught us at a bad time." He forced himself not to look at Gunn, who lay out of her line of vision. "If you want to help, just go." When she didn't move, he added, "Leave your number with… my colleague. I'll call you."

The woman made a frustrated noise in her throat. "Okay, I'll go, but I'm going to give you an address, not mine, for a guy I know, a medic who was in the service with my husband. He runs a clinic of sorts near the airport now. Jim isn't a doctor, but he patches up truckers who don't want to go through their HMO, if you know what I mean. Bar fights and stuff, STDs." She rummaged through her large purse, unaware of Spike right behind her, and pulled out a scrap of paper and a pen. She finished writing the address and held it out to Angel, pushing back a strand of red hair that had escaped her ponytail. "It's at the back of a veterinary hospital, I don't remember the name. Jim's good. He saved Henry's life a time or two."

"Thanks," Angel said awkwardly, taking it to glance at the address. Then he looked back up at her, holding her gaze for a moment, wishing he had options to weigh. He took a breath, as if a human ready to dive into deep water. "Look, I don't know you. I don't trust you. But I don't have any choices. I do need help. If your offer of a ride is still good, yeah, we'll take it." He ignored Spike's vehement head-shaking.

The woman was surprised at this about-face, but recovered quickly. "Of course it's still good. You want me to drop y'all at the clinic, right?"

Angel nodded. Over her head, he met Spike's exasperated gaze. "You wanna… escort her? I'll get things here ready to go."

The young woman turned around and found herself staring right at his chest. She jumped a little, and Spike gave her a predatory smile, then went to hold the door open for her. When they were outside, Spike looked carefully into the shadows. She turned left, and he followed her, still checking for lurking attackers. Why their enemies would choose stealth now, he didn't know, but nothing had made sense for weeks. Then he saw the tractor-trailer parked along the sidewalk, and some of the things she said clicked.

"You really meant a rig," he said.

"Yes," she agreed in an overly-patient tone.

"Thought you had an SUV or something," Spike said grudgingly. It was a HST Transport truck, a common enough sight in America. He pointed his chin at it. "So, what's inside?"

"Nothing." She got out her keys. "Tractor broke down in Knoxville, and I'm just ferrying it here to Los Angeles now that it's fixed. One-shot deal. I, uh, take a few of these jobs just to stay on the roster."

He nodded and watched her go around to the driver's side door. Once she had climbed into the cab, he vanished to the passenger side and stepped onto the running board. The door was unlocked. Listening closely and taking a last look around, he got in. She looked very small perched behind the big steering wheel, but seemed at ease. She started the diesel engine and rolled the truck down the street so it was as close to the Hyperion's front doors as possible. Angel was already there, holding Gunn's limp body in his arms. Spike watched her eyebrows go up. "Our mate here got the worst of our little bar fight tonight," he said flatly and opened the door.

He leapt down and swept to Angel's side. "I think we should take the weapons cabinet," he said quietly, "because I really want to see what, or who… or what is in that trailer."

Angel glanced down at Gunn with more than a little desperation, then nodded. "Yeah, you're right. Go get it." He strode over to the truck and climbed up, ignoring the driver in case she had any questions. Once Gunn was settled into the seat, he jerked his head toward the trailer. "You got room in there for a cabinet?"

She was looking at Gunn with a grave expression. "You got time to worry about a cabinet?"

"Yes or no?"

She looked up at the harsh lines of his face, then held up her palms, fingers splayed. "Okay."

If she noticed that Spike had single-handedly wrestled the massive cabinet out the door, she didn't say anything. The only thing in the trailer was a heavy, old-fashioned cot, sheets and a blanket tucked between the thin mattress and the iron frame. Back in the cab, Angel looked at Spike and shrugged. Maybe they were catching a break. Spike shrugged in reply and bent his head to check behind them in the side mirror.

Traffic was light, even for four o'clock in the morning, and their driver was good at her job, anticipating light changes and exits so that they rolled smoothly along with a minimum of downshifting. She opened her mouth once to say something, but seemed to think better of it.

"Seven minutes," she said with some satisfaction, breaking the silence as they took the airport exit. "Better than I thought." It was only a couple of minutes later that she dropped into a lower gear, the big engine blatting, and turned onto a side street. Angel could hear barking before he saw the fluorescent sign stuttering "Clinic" over a loading dock at the back of a building. A man was sitting outside on an upturned milk crate, smoking a cigarette. When he saw the truck, he stubbed it out and headed toward them.

Exchanging what felt like their hundredth glance of the night, Spike gave Angel a sardonic grin and opened the door. He was out before the big rig stopped moving, fists clenched.

"Hey, we've got an injured man here," he called, advancing toward the smoker, a black man who looked to be in his seventies.

The old man nodded in acknowledgement. "How bad?" As Spike drew closer, he could see that the man's right sleeve was neatly folded and pinned at the elbow. As assassins went, old and one-armed was fairly exotic. Maybe this was on the up-and-up.

The dark-skinned man looked past him. "Sally?" he asked in surprise, then broke into a smile. It faded as he turned his attention to the body that Angel was bearing toward him. "What happened?"

Their driver, apparently named Sally, gave the old man a quick hug. "Jim, good to see you. I'm glad you're here tonight." She moved back, letting Angel step forward, and Jim gestured toward the building.

"Stab wounds," Angel answered, never breaking stride. "He's lost a lot of blood."

Jim nodded, then trotted ahead. He threw open the back door, and the sound of barking grew louder. "Heck! We got incoming! Set us up for blood transfusion!"

It was cleaner and much more professional than Angel expected. He wondered just how many truckers needed illicit medical help while in Los Angeles. Gunn was on a steel table with an IV drip in his arm in short order, and a muscular Hispanic kid was shooing him from the surgery as Jim scrubbed up. The door had a round window, and Angel skulked outside, staring in at Gunn's motionless body. He felt almost weak with relief that he had been able to do something, anything for his friend. Too many had died already.

Then he froze with the realization that something very odd had just happened. Where Jim had been one-armed before, he was now scrubbing up two arms, one of which looked distinctly reptilian. "Huh," said Angel. He was getting an idea of how Sally had come by his old business card.

"Look, um," Sally said tentatively, then trailed off.

Spike looked over at her. He had taken a moment to wash up in the employee locker room, and had been pacing the waiting room for fifteen minutes now. "Yeah?" He knew he still sounded rude, but didn't have any politeness left in him this night.

"I'm scheduled to deliver this rig tonight. HST dispatch is just five minutes away. I've got a storage unit here by the airport. I could put your… wardrobe in with my stuff, drop off the truck, and be back in an hour. You guys be all right here until then?"

He gave her a speculative look. "Why don't I go with you." It wasn't a request. "We'll just tell Angel, shall we?" She didn't look especially happy at the prospect of his company, but as he didn't trust her as far as he could throw her truck, he didn't care.

Spike turned his back on her and walked down the hallway to where Angel was still watching Gunn's operation. "Angel, our truck-drivin' _deux ex machina_ wants to go turn in her eighteen wheels," he said. "I'll tag along, if you don't think you'll need me here to help you brood or anything."

Angel didn't bother to reply. "Take a look at Dr. Jim," he said, nodding toward the window.

"Two arms now, is it?" he said. At this point, it felt odd to be surprised by anything. He watched the surgery for a minute. "Think there's any hope?"

"Yeah, Spike. I do." Angel's voice was very soft. "How about that?"

"Ready?"

Both men jumped a bit. Sally had moved up behind them in admirable silence. Spike thought she looked rather pleased with herself. He gave her a blatantly sexual once-over, just out of spite. She wasn't bad-looking, might even be pretty if she tried. Sally was a redhead, with green eyes and regular features, no makeup, small-boned but a little heavy, although it was hard to tell much about the figure hidden beneath the flannel shirt that hung almost to her knees. Spike met her unamused eyes and gave her an insulting grin. "Yeah, I'm ready."

Sally studied him expressionlessly until his grin faded. She turned to Angel, who was oblivious to their exchange. "We'll be back soon, an hour, hour and a half."

"Okay." Angel was watching Dr. Jim's progress with Gunn again.

"We'll stop by the storage unit first," Sally said, rummaging in her purse again as she walked away. She came up with two sets of keys and tossed him one. "Can you drive a stick?"

Spike glanced at the keys and saw a Ford logo. He gave her another leering grin, just to needle her, and drawled, "A stick? Sure, baby." He held the back door open for her.

This time he got a sharp look as reward before she swept out ahead of him. "So, your name is Spike?" She didn't look back at him.

He chuckled. "I could practically hear the quotation marks around 'Spike.'"

"Sorry," Sally said. He heard her add in an undertone, " _Spike_." It made him grin again; here was a much-needed source of entertainment.

The storage company really was just a couple of minutes away. He got her to open the trailer doors first so that he could ease the massive weapons cabinet down onto the concrete while her attention was focused on unlocking the storage unit. Sally raised the garage door, and Spike saw a full-bed, extended cab Ford pickup inside.

"Like big trucks, do you?" he asked in amusement.

Sally stood still for a second. "What does that mean, exactly?" she asked as she turned to face him, using the very patient tone once again.

"Nothing." He tilted his head. "What could I possibly mean by that? Now, that has to come out," he said, pointing at the black pickup and pressing the unlock button on the keychain remote, "before we can move that in." He gestured back toward the cabinet and gave her another cheeky grin. Anything was better than thinking about the cost of this night.

"And what do you drive?" Sally asked in what he decided to think of as her schoolmarm voice.

"Ah, yes, of course. The quintessential L.A. question," he mocked, opening the door to the pickup. "Recently, a Viper, a motorbike, and a DeSoto. Oh, and I crashed a Citroen."

Sally blinked. "In the face of such variety, words fail me. You're quite the vehicular slut."

Spike whipped around to stare at her. "You know, I don't think words fail you at all."

It was her turn to grin, and the tension between them eased somewhat. She waved at the pickup. "Go on. Time's a-wastin'."

By the time he had maneuvered the pickup around the tractor-trailer, she had the cot and a gym bag of her belongings out of the truck. He made a show of letting her help move the heavy cabinet inside the storage unit. To his surprise, she lifted the cot into the truck bed instead of putting it in storage and then climbed in herself. He heard the clink of chains as she moved over the cot, then she hopped out to lock the garage door. Spike glanced over his shoulder into the bed as he got back into the pickup. The four legs of the upside-down cot stuck up awkwardly, and the overhead streetlights illuminated the chains Sally had been rattling. The chains might be securing the cot, but he clearly saw a manacle attached to the last link. Sally came up to his door, and he powered down the window, giving her a speculative look.

"Just follow me; it's mostly right turns and not too far from here." She narrowed her eyes when he didn't reply. "What now?"

"Nothing," he said quickly. "I'm just waiting on you." She stared at him for a second longer, then shrugged and walked back to the truck. Spike raised an eyebrow as he watched the top of her head appear inside the cab. Sally: drives big trucks, knows demon doctors, owns manacles. Right. Perfectly normal. He followed her out of the storage site onto the roads, where traffic was beginning to pick up, and into an industrial park.

While it didn't take long for her to finish her business with the trucking company, it was already after five-thirty. Nothing she'd said to the night guard or the dispatcher had sounded suspicious, and Spike's main concern was the coming dawn. He cast an anxious glance at the sky as they walked out of the brightly lit offices, Sally folding some paperwork and making it disappear into her voluminous purse. When they pulled into the lot behind the veterinary hospital at ten until six, he breathed a sigh of relief.

Angel was watching for them from the loading dock, not drinking from the Styrofoam cup of coffee he held in his hand. He had apparently cleaned up in the locker room, too. The dogs had quieted down.

"How's Gunn?" Spike asked, tossing the keys back to Sally.

"Out of surgery and asleep." Angel shrugged. "It's just the waiting now."

Sally dropped the keys into her purse and trudged up the short stairway. She put her hand on Angel's sleeve and gave him a small smile. "I've known Jim a long time. He may not have a medical degree hanging on the wall, but he knows his stuff. Your friend is in good hands." She gestured toward the door. "I'm gonna go see him – Jim, I mean."

Angel waited until the door closed behind her, then raised a questioning eyebrow at Spike, who shrugged and jumped up next to him.

"She's a strange bird, mate. I mean, she's been dead useful tonight, but she looks what? Twenty, twenty-five? And she's known old Jim the regenerating doctor for a long time because he was in the service with her husband? There's less than two hundred miles on the pickup there, this year's model and kept in storage. Plus, she had chains and manacles to go with that cot she had in the back of her rig."

Angel raised a brow again at that information. "I'd be surprised if she's human. But, you know, that's almost a comfort. We helped – Angel Investigations, I mean, helped a lot of the harmless demons back in the day."

"What kind do you think she is, then?"

The dark-haired man lifted a shoulder. "I don't know. One of the species that can pass as human. Doesn't narrow it down all that much. Or maybe she's just a human with demons in the family." He shifted restlessly. "This is obviously not just a black market clinic for truckers. It's a demon hospital, pretty well equipped. I've skulked around hospitals and battlefields enough to know this Jim guy has experience with humans, too." Weary, he closed his eyes for a moment. "If I didn't know better, I'd say this was a lucky break."

"Well, not learning any better out here, are we?" Spike opened the door and held it for Angel. They went silently inside.

"…really bad job of sticking your friend in there. Or good job, depending on your perspective. They missed the liver and the intestines, both of which would have been bad news." It was Jim's voice, coming from the waiting room.

"He's not my friend, but you think he'll recover?" This was Sally's voice, anxious. "That was a lot of blood."

"If I can keep down the infection, yes, I feel pretty good about it." Spike could physically feel Angel relax, and he turned to share a rare genuine smile with the other man. "How'd you get mixed up in it, Sally, if you don't know him?"

"Right place at the wrong time, or somethin' like that," she replied. Her accent was more distinctly Southern now. "They'd been through the wringer, and I knew you could help them out. Like Henry always said, you're the best." There was a pause in the conversation, and the sound of a chair being dragged a foot or so along the linoleum.

"If you're here alone, then I'm guessing Henry...?"

"Yes. This past January. I tried calling, Jim, but your telephone was disconnected. I was in L.A. last month, and I stopped by, but I missed you. I couldn't just… leave a message."

Jim didn't say anything for a long moment, and his voice sounded thick when he spoke again. "Yeah, I dropped my land line." He cleared his throat. "The Alzheimer's?"

Sally gave a shaky laugh. "No, it was his lifelong addiction to country fried steaks." They heard her blow her nose, and Spike was sure that she had found a tissue in her large purse. "He died early one morning. He was so cold, like I always must have..." After a moment, she went on. "The coroner listed massive heart attack as the cause of death. It was quick and a blessing, but that doesn't make it any easier."

"No, it's never easy." Jim sighed. "I'm ready to hibernate, Sally, almost twitchy with it, but I knew it wasn't time yet. I guess this is what I was waiting for. Henry… aw, hell. He saved my life twice in Germany, you know." There was another long pause. "I think that makes me the last man standing from our unit now. Well, I guess I always knew I would be."

"You did have kind of an advantage, Jim."

"I remember this one time outside of Berlin…."

Angel gave Spike a short nod. There wasn't anything else to be learned by eavesdropping. Spike let go of the door, and it slammed shut behind them. The voices went silent.

⸹

Two windows were set high in the far wall of the waiting room. Spike had shut the blinds earlier, and now he watched with half-closed eyes as a small patch of sunshine crept toward Angel's foot. Angel was asleep in one of the plastic chairs, and he had his own legs stretched out, ready to give his grandsire a good, hard kick at the opportune moment. He glanced at the clock, which now read 9:35. Eight to ten minutes, he judged, still deciding between the ankle and the side of the knee. The room was warm, and it had been a very long night. He had to amuse himself somehow to stay awake, to keep the memories away.

That was the worst part of having the soul, the memories. It was too much like brooding. He never been one to look in the rearview mirror, but his soul loved nothing more than pulling out the old photo albums and wallowing in a good reminisce. With everything so unsettled, his soul wanted to make him recall when he was six, when being the youngest vampire in the family was growing wearisome, and Spike believed that nothing could ever change.

That was before a mere human, not even a Slayer, slashed through the combined strength of three vampires in less than two minutes. He remembered the sword that nearly decapitated Angelus, the sight of Dru's bleeding eyes. He replayed falling to his knees. He saw a kestrel take wing, a beautiful, hopeful sight….

Spike gave his head a slight shake to banish the memories, his demon face sandwiched for a second between the dreamily worshipful and the sour expressions. Shut up, soul. Not going there. Change was almost never a good thing, whether one was six or one-hundred-and-twenty-six. At least some time had passed, a good thing. The sunbeam had crept much closer.

Sally was sitting across from them, drifting, her head nodding. Just as he had decided to kick Angel's ankle, she drew in a quick breath and stood up. Spike closed his eyes to bare slits and watched her stretch. She walked over to the window and tugged at the blinds, getting rid of the little patch of sunlight. She came back to her seat and collected her gym bag, then went out of the room. He heard the door to the locker room swing shut. Twenty minutes later, Spike was about to get up and move around to stay awake when he heard Sally coming back.

She had apparently showered. Her damp red hair was pinned up on her head and the flannel shirt was gone. She dropped her bag on the chair she had been sitting in, her back to him. She wore snug jeans and a tank top, and Spike was mildly amused to see that he had been wrong about her heavy figure. Top-heavy, maybe, but everything else was nicely proportioned. Sally absently eased a wide bra strap underneath the tank top, and Spike smiled. He hadn't seen a woman wear practical foundation garments in a long time. Tara might have, but he'd never been on underwear-awareness terms with her, more's the pity.

He feigned sleep as Sally turned around. She glanced at Angel, then at him. He heard her sigh, and she turned back to rummage in the bag. She pulled out another, equally concealing flannel shirt, pulled it on and buttoned it, then took out a brush and slicked her hair into a ponytail. She stowed everything back into the gym bag and tossed it under the chair.

"Excuse me." The muscled kid who had helped Jim earlier was at the waiting room door. He had a nametag that read "Hector" pinned crookedly on his shirt. Spike stood up, barely before Angel. "Your friend, he's awake. You can go see him now."

Charles looked better only in that his eyes were open and blood splatters no longer dotted his skin, but he had a weak smile for his friends, crinkling the bandage on his right cheek.

Angel crouched beside the bed. "How you doing? Are you in any pain?"

Gunn shook his head carefully. "Nuh-uh. It's there, but sorta… distant. Must be something good in the IV."

"There's antibiotics in the drip, too, and if you're infection-free, your, uh, doctor says you can leave tomorrow."

Gunn didn't so much laugh as gasp. "Where we gonna go?"

Angel gave a grim smile. "Good question." Eve had asked the same thing.

"Everything was kind of confused, there at the end. Fred? I mean, Ill– The dragon." Charles trailed off.

"Gone," Angel said shortly.

"Glowed," Gunn breathed. His eyelids fluttered.

"Incandesced," Spike offered from the doorway. "Good to see you with us, mate."

The human half-smiled, but his eyes stayed closed. "Not a ghost, anyway."

Spike's lips curved. "No, don't want to do that."

"Fred… Wes… Lorne gone, too, left." Charles knitted his brow. "Was there a truck, a tractor-trailer? Seems like…"

Angel covered Gunn's hand. "Yeah, there was a truck. You didn't imagine it."

"They gave you five units of blood," Spike noted. "Looked right tasty, too. Don't want to waste the good stuff, Charlie."

"… sleep for a while," Gunn murmured.

"You do that," Angel agreed. "You've earned it." He stood up and watched the unlined face for a moment, glad to see him peaceful.

"He'll be in and out for the next few hours, as the anesthetic wears off." Jim brushed past Spike and came into the room to stand on the opposite side of the bed from Angel. He tucked the earpieces of his stethoscope into his ears and listened to Gunn's lungs for a moment. He tugged the stethoscope down and looped it around his neck. "Sounds good. He's fit, young, healthy. If you can keep him out of," Jim raised an eyebrow, "bar fights, he ought to be just fine."

Angel nodded, then pointedly looked at Jim's right sleeve, once again pinned up at the elbow. "Well, I feel like he's in good hands."

Jim met his gaze mildly. "Go on back to the waiting room. If he wakes up in the next few minutes, it'll probably be to vomit. The anesthesia, you know. Otherwise, he should sleep for at least a couple of hours. Rest is the best thing for him now."

Angel fell in beside Spike for the short walk down the hallway. Spike gave him a sidelong look and spoke in a very low voice. "Gunn had a good question. Where do we go from," he stopped himself, frowning. "Where can we go, I mean."

"I've been thinking." Angel shrugged. "There's no one who isn't here that I dislike enough to visit."

Spike gave him an annoyed look. "Cute." He gestured toward the locker room. "Be in the men's. I'll give you a shout if I find a vat of hair gel."

Too tired to smile, Angel watched the door close between them, then went back to the waiting room. He yawned. The energy from Hamilton's blood had faded. Sally was in the waiting area, cupping her face in her hands, leaning forward in a chair. She looked up at him as he came in and stifled a yawn of her own.

"How's your friend?"

"Better than he would be if you hadn't come by last night." Angel sat down next to her and met her eyes. "Thank you. I think you saved his life."

"Nah." Sally shrugged and looked down at her hands.

"You came to me for help." He leaned forward, too, and clasped his hands together, resting his elbows on his knees. "I don't have many resources right now, but maybe there's something I can do. What help do you need?"

She looked over at him. "Like I said, it isn't urgent. It's more of a… quality of life sort of thing. It can wait until your friend is out of the woods, Mr. Angel."

Angel nodded, deciding not to press her. "Angel. It's just Angel."

She raised her eyebrows. "Just Angel. Just Spike. I feel very square." She sat up suddenly, her brows drawing together in consternation. "I don't believe I ever introduced myself, not properly. Sally Tolliver." She held out her hand.

Angel gave it a brief shake. "Nice to meet you, Sally Tolliver, unusual circumstances and all." He met her eyes briefly. "Uh, if there's somewhere you need to be…."

"Nah. Now that I've finished the one-way, I'm happily unemployed until the next contract."

Spike walked back into the waiting room, carrying his coat, his hair damp. "Well, I feel like a new man, one what's hungry and been up all night and gets to spend more hours in this cheerful little room." He dropped into one of the chairs opposite them. "You two best friends and all, now?"

"Yes, he is always like this," Angel offered. He gestured between them. "Spike, this is Sally Tolliver. Sally, Spike."

She extended her hand, and Spike took it perfunctorily. "Meetcha."

"You, too," she replied. "So, you're from France."

Spike gave her a hard look, then grinned despite himself. "Yeah, and you must be from Brooklyn."

She smiled, too, and glanced at Angel. "I did expect you to be Latino."

"I get that a lot," he mused.

"I need babysitters," Jim said, coming through the doorway. "Mostly we board pets here. People drop them off before they catch their flights." He maneuvered an animal carrier through the doorway. "But someone actually drove all the way out here to see about Miss Kitty, and I'm going to ask you guys to watch her kittens while she gets her postnatal checkup." He put the cage on the floor.

Sally was already out of her chair, a silly grin on her face, crawling a couple of feet on her hands and knees so she could see inside the carrier. "Ooh, they're adorable!"

Spike rolled his eyes and tried to share with Angel, but Angel's eyes were focused on the seat of Sally's jeans, which was no longer beneath the concealing flannel. Yeah, that always ended well. Spike rolled his eyes again and moved out of the chair so he could squat next to her in front of the cage.

Four kittens were at the door, staring solemnly at Sally's face. Two were calico, one was tabby, and the last one looked Siamese. Spike looked up at the medic. "Mama cat got around."

"Puts the tomcats to shame," Jim agreed. He looked down at Sally. "Say, Sally, you hungry?"

She looked up at him, the smile fading from her face. "No, thank you, Jim, not now," she answered slowly. She turned to Angel. "I'm sorry, I didn't think. I, uh, got a bite to eat while y'all were asleep." Sally turned back to Spike, who covered his surprise that she would lie over such an unimportant thing. "You're welcome to take the truck, if you want to go get something."

"There's a vending machine in the break room just off the loading dock," Jim added.

"I'm not hungry," Angel assured her, "and I don't want to leave Charles. What about you, Spike?"

He shook his head, then reached into the cage for one of the calicos. "I can wait. If I get really hungry, I'll just eat this little guy." He held it toward Sally, and it put a paw on her nose.

Jim smiled. "Well, this shouldn't take long, ten minutes, maybe. I'll be back for all four kittens then," he added in mock warning. Angel shot Spike a warning of his own over Sally's head.

"Come on down and play, Peaches." Spike handed his kitten to Sally and took another one, rolling over and plopping the tabby onto his tummy. "If you don't, I'll have to tell Sally here about all the times you haven't been so dignified."

Angel sighed. "Blackmail works every time." He took off his jacket and dropped it on the floor, then settled on top of it. "Give me a kitten."

⸹

"I wish I had a camera," Jim drawled from the doorway. Kittens and bodies littered the floor, along with wadded-up ATM slips, pens, and other detritus from Sally's large purse. Spike sprawled across a row of chairs, letting the ferocious little tabby underneath attack his hand and growling back at it. Angel was on his stomach on the floor, and the Siamese had its front paws in his hair, kneading as he scratched its head. Sally was scooting paper wads across the floor for the remaining two to pounce upon.

She looked up at Jim. "Aww, already?"

Spike scooped up the tabby and popped it back in the carrier. "Don't look so crestfallen, Angel," he teased, grabbing the Siamese. "If you're extra good this year, maybe Father Christmas will bring you one of your very own." Angel stood up quickly and shook out his jacket, gathering his dignity.

Sally rounded up the other two. "Bye-bye, little sweetie pie," she cooed, carefully putting the last calico in the cage and shutting the door.

"I think I may be sick," Spike announced.

"Now you know how the rest of us feel," Angel offered.

Sally glanced at the two of them and shook her head. At first, with all the silent communication between them, she'd thought they were lovers, but it was obvious now that they were either related or close as brothers. She stood up and handed the carrier to Jim. "Thanks. That was really thoughtful. Helped pass the time."

"Not at all," Jim said, opening the door wide for the cage. "You helped me out." The door shut behind him, and they heard him ask the kittens in a high-pitched voice, "Did ums miss umses mommy?"

"Now I know I'm going to be sick." Spike dropped down into a chair.

"From the sound of it, either y'all are kin or you've known each other a long time," Sally remarked, rounding up the makeshift cat toys.

"Girl we both knew introduced us, long time ago," Spike said when it became apparent Angel wasn't going to answer.

"Do you work at Angel Investigations, too?" She went to the garbage can by the door to toss the paper wads.

He gave a considering look at Angel before answering slowly, "No, I've never worked there. I just help out sometimes."

Angel sat down opposite Spike. "We're… we've known each other a long time. A lot of water under the bridge." He looked at the blond man for a moment, then gave up, shrugging. There were no words. "So, Sally," he said heartily. "Sit down." She turned from the door and sat one seat over from Spike. "You were telling me about your problem."

She looked up at the ceiling and exhaled. "You know, it's easier to talk about at night than it is during the day." She gave a rueful smile. "In the light of day, my problem sounds… farfetched, and since I never talk about it, I'm not good at talking about it." She gave both of them an assessing look, then tried again. "I got your business card from someone who said that your agency specialized in the, well, in supernatural things." Sally looked at Angel and waited for his response.

He nodded. "Right. Things that the police wouldn't believe," he paused for a second as an unbidden image of Kate Lockley swam into his tired consciousness, "um, ghosts, that sort of thing." His eyes flicked toward Spike. Like Kate, another type of ghost that haunted him.

"Okay. Good." She looked down at her hands and fell silent.

"We've seen a lot of odd things, pet," Spike said. "Just spit it out."

Sally continued to stare at the floor. "It's like this: since my husband died earlier this year, I've needed a safe, reliable way of unlocking myself in the morning. I have to be locked up, restrained at night to keep other people safe."

"Safe… from you?" Angel prompted.

"From me, yes. When I'm asleep, something else takes over, something dangerous. I'm a…" she took a deep, steadying breath, "a vampire." She tensed, almost cringing away from the expected reaction. When neither of them made any comment, she looked up. Both were trying not to grin.

She stood up from her seat and walked away. "Stop smiling. Trust me, it isn't funny."

Angel recovered first. "Okay, you think you're a vampire."

She spun to face him, no amusement on her face. "No, I know I'm a vampire. I've been a vampire for longer than the two of you have been alive." She lifted a shoulder. "Twice as long."

"Right." Spike slumped in his seat and stretched his arms across the backs of the two chairs on either side. "It'd be easier for us to believe if–"

Angel cut him off, trying from another angle. Maybe it was some other kind of demon, and the only label she had was 'vampire.' "Sally, how did you become a vampire?"

Her arms were crossed now, and there was a mutinous look on her face. She held up three fingers. "Bitten." One finger dropped. "Swallowed its blood." Another digit dropped, leaving one fairly insulting finger pointing at Angel. "Woke up dead." She completed the fist, then re-crossed her arms. "This isn't easy to talk about, you know."

"I'm sure it isn't," Angel said soothingly. She smelled mostly normal, and she was breathing. There were too many animals and humans in the building to reliably suss out her heartbeat. Without going to demon face, he couldn't check any further. "Look, Sally, we've been around you all day, we've been around you with _kittens_. You aren't a vampire. And even if you were, we couldn't make you not a vampire. I'm not sure what kind of help you want from us."

She looked heavenward. "I don't expect miracles. I have to be safe at night, locked up so that I don't hurt anyone while I'm sleeping and not in control of my body. That, I can do. I just need a reliable way of getting unlocked."

Angel looked at Spike, at a loss. He dropped his gaze to the floor, embarrassed. "Being locked up… What you're talking about sounds more like werewolves, Sally, not vamp–"

"Oh, what do you know?" she cried. "Look, if I've made a mistake, if this is too out there for you, just say so." Sally turned away and snatched up her purse and gym bag. "But don't tell me my business."

Spike thought of the manacles on the cot and wondered what she had been doing to herself. "Sally, we don't think it's crazy that you believe in vampires. We've… seen them."

"We are them," Angel said quietly.

"What?" Sally blurted, a fair amount of disbelief in her own voice, as she turned back from the door.

Angel looked at Spike, who shrugged. They turned to Sally, putting on their demon faces.

She stared at them a moment, shocked. Her purse and her gym bag hit the floor. Then, faster than Angel could react, she sprang at him. Spike exploded from the chair behind her and grabbed her shoulders, only then seeing that he had stopped the stake in her hand from going into Angel's heart.

"Oh, nice," she snarled in disgust. "'Help the helpless.' Good way to lure victims."

Angel grabbed her hand and twisted the stake toward her thumb, trying to disarm her. "We're… good vampires," he gritted out. She was strong.

"Hah!" She nearly wrenched free of Spike. "Pull the other one."

"We've got souls," Spike growled in her ear.

Like throwing a switch, Sally stopped resisting. Spike was tugging so hard that they both nearly toppled backwards. Angel looked stupidly at the stake she had left in his hand, then at Sally.

"Well, that's all right, then. Sorry about the stake; you can't be too careful." Sally looked over her shoulder. "You can let go now."

"Wait one bloody minute," Spike replied, angry himself now. "You nearly killed Angel!"

"I am sorry," she told him. "I've just made it a policy to kill every vampire I come across. I've never met any others with souls before. I should have realized." She looked up at Spike again. "Really, you can let go."

He did so, reluctantly. Angel was staring at her, too shocked to speak. In the silence, they all listened futilely for each other's heartbeats. Spike began to ask a question just as the door opened. Spike and Angel quickly resumed their human features.

"What's the commotion in here?" Jim snapped. "You need to keep it down so Mr. Gunn can get his rest."

"Sorry, Jim. It was me." Sally walked over to the door. "You know, I am hungry." She gestured at the two men behind her. "We all are, if you've got enough."

Jim looked at them, then back at Sally. "You're… all hungry?" he asked carefully.

"Yeah," she said. "Who knew?" Then she snorted. "I'm embarrassed to say I didn't. Too nervous last night to notice y'all weren't breathing, I guess."

Jim stared at Angel and Spike a moment, obviously trying to adjust to this news. "Okay," he said slowly, "I'll bring you something to drink." Still staring at the men, he let the door close.

"Show us your face," Angel said abruptly. "Your demon face."

She grimaced with distaste. "I don't like to." Sally went very still, and strong vampire features floated to the surface of her face, blurred, and disappeared. Angel glanced down at the forgotten stake in his hand, a sturdy, old-looking gray piece of wood, then handed it her.

"You… have a soul?" Spike asked softly.

"Uh-huh." Sally smiled. "Like I said, I've never met any other vampires with souls."

Angel sat down heavily and mumbled something.

"I'm sorry?" Sally tilted her head, trying to hear him as she tucked the stake back into her huge purse.

He cleared his throat. "You kill other vampires?"

She shrugged. "It's not like I go looking for them. I killed all the ones that I accidentally made, plus twelve others over the years. Seventeen in all."

"You've sired five vampires?" This was from Spike, who was looking through his coat for a cigarette now.

Sally looked uncomfortable. "Not so much me as the vampire inside me. Like I said, when I'm asleep and not chained down, he gets loose and goes on the hunt. I don't have any memory of it." She sighed and sat down in the plastic chair nearest to the door. "I can lock myself up when I go to sleep, but since my husband passed away in January, I haven't had anyone as a failsafe to unlock me. The vampire isn't too bright, but I'm running out of clever places to hide the key from myself." She looked over at Angel, then up at Spike. "It… isn't like that for you fellas, is it?"

Spike closed his eyes in gratitude as he found a last, slightly crushed smoke. "No, not like that. You speak as if you're separate, but that's not how it is. I am a vampire." He put his hand on his chest. "I have hunted, I have killed, I have–" He stopped abruptly. "Bugger this." He lit the cigarette. Even the great poof didn't take the multiple personalities approach this far.

"Here we go." Jim was back at the door, holding three quart jars of blood. He gave the occupants of the waiting room a bemused look.

"What kind of blood is this?" Angel asked sharply.

"Cow's blood. I went by the slaughterhouse this morning." He held the jars out to Sally, who took one of them. "I figured you might be staying a while," he told her. Jim handed each of the two men a jar.

"What kind of demon are you?" Spike asked conversationally.

"Jelash," Jim replied. He held up his right arm. "I was wounded too badly in the service to regenerate a human arm. I could use a glamour, but…" He shrugged.

"How long have you known that Sally is…" Angel trailed off.

"After I got back to the States after the war," Jim replied easily. "Her husband, Henry, got in touch with me. I was the medic in his unit, and he knew what I was. Figured I'd know a bit about helping Sally adjust. She's an unusual case."

"Which war?" Spike asked.

"The big one," Jim said. "World War Two. I was white then." He looked at Spike. "I'm a smoker, too, but I'm going to have to ask you to put that out, son."

"'S'alright, I'm done anyway." Spike stubbed out the cigarette. "It's just… it's not everyday that I meet a vampire with a soul."

"Seems like it to me," Angel said, mumbling again.

Sally looked at Angel, then gave Spike a puzzled look. "Ignore him," he advised.

"Look, I'm going to go see to Mr. Gunn," Jim said, headed back to the hallway. "Now that we all, um, understand each other, I can do more for him."

"He's human," Angel said quickly.

"I know he is."

An uncomfortable silence fell over them as Jim's footsteps died away. Sally unscrewed the top of her jar and drank. She closed her eyes in appreciation. "It's fresh," she commented. Spike sat down, looked at Angel, and shrugged. They opened their own containers and began to feed.

Spike suppressed a burp, feeling even the pathetic cow's blood buzzing through him, the last damage to his ribs starting to heal. "How'd you get your soul back, then, Sally?"

She gave him a quizzical look. "What do you mean?"

Spike gestured toward Angel with his jar. "Angel was cursed by gypsies. Me, I faced trials and earned mine."

"He hasn't even had his soul back for two years yet," Angel interjected, annoyed. "I've been living with mine for over a hundred."

"Poor soul," Spike shot back, grinning. "Bet it seems like longer it's been stuck with you." He turned back to Sally. "So, what's your story?"

"No story." Sally shrugged and took another sip from the jar. "I've always had my soul. I never lost it."

⸹

Next Chapter: Spike and Angel take the other ensouled vampire to meet Giles. They find some other old friends are there, too.


	3. Healing

**Healing**

⸹

Los Angeles

May 2004

⸹

Gunn narrowed his eyes, but Sally didn't flinch. They went with the moment, getting a feel for each other.

"Bruins, then?" she asked.

Gunn nodded. "Duke?"

"Hell, no." Sally sounded insulted. "North Carolina."

Gunn relaxed back onto the pillows. "All right. That's okay. UNC. I can respect that."

She gave him a grudging look. "Yeah, UCLA's okay, too."

Spike stood abruptly from the chair by the bed. "I'm going to go have a smoke," he announced to no one in particular.

He found Angel in the waiting room after recalling that he was out of cigarettes. "Don't go in there," he warned. "They're onto basketball now." He threw himself into a chair opposite the dark-haired man. "They were talking coaches, and now even I hate Steve Spurrier and Rick Pitino for being arrogant, traitorous ponces, and I don't know who they bloody well are." He sighed. "Why can't they discuss something sensible, like football?" Go with the stereotype, Spike thought dully. He hadn't really cared about footy all that much since Manchester United's George Best days.

Without saying a word, Angel handed him the afternoon edition he had been reading. The headline was 'Senator Bruckner, 56, Dead of Heart Attack.' He saw the words Wolfram and Hart at the bottom of the front page. "Building destroyed… Terrorists… Two Wolfram and Hart employees found murdered," Spike read aloud, unfolding the newspaper to read further. "Yeah, Wesley, but Lindsey didn't work for them," he said in protest, lifting his eyes.

"For purposes of this press release, he did," Angel said grimly. "Read on."

"Winifred Burkle… missing. Legal counsel Charles Gunn and executive Liam Angel," he stopped, giving Angel an incredulous look, "missing and wanted for questioning by the police."

"You and Lorne aren't mentioned." Angel stood up and began pacing.

"What are they playing at?"

"I don't know." He sighed and stopped pacing, turning back to Spike. "I need to call the Burkles, need to call Wesley's family. They have to know. It's almost nine o'clock; I'm counting on the fact that none of my former employees would have had the decency to call them today." He took a long breath. "I've been thinking, planning, which I guess means we're moving out of crisis mode." He looked at Spike in silence until he had the blond man's full attention. "Some of those plans involve Sally, and I just don't know. Do you trust her?"

Spike gave a grim smile and replied, "List of people I trust has a single name on it, Angel. You know that." He stood from the chair, turning away. "Use her in your plans, mate. I've known people for years, even decades before being betrayed; maybe knowing someone less than twenty-four hours is a bonus. Doesn't hurt that way."

A contradictory range of emotions crossed Angel's face as he looked at Spike's back but thought of Dru, all cool flesh and hot eyes beneath him, the sounds of her pain and her pleasure. How she had loved having Daddy back. He closed his eyes and put aside everything else except his responsibilities to the remnants of Angel Investigations. "I'll send you out for supplies. Do you mind taking her along, keeping her occupied?"

Spike shot a look over his shoulder. "I'm not busy."

Angel handed him a list. "Here. This will all come in handy, no matter what." He fished in his jacket and brought out a wad of bills. "This should be enough."

After reading over the list, Spike shook his head. "I'm not skint. Keep your money; you'll probably need it."

This gave Angel pause. "You have money?"

Spike gave him a narrow look. "Yeah, every penny I earned from your evil corporation for minding the blue baby, minus smokes and beer and a few game cartridges."

"You can't get money from the bank, Spike. They'll be tracking our accounts."

"I'm not an idiot, Angel," Spike said patiently. "Don't use the banks, do I?"

"Your 'retainer' for watching Illyria went from my personal bank account into yours every Friday. You had direct deposit!"

"I did. Just took the money right out Friday afternoons, didn't I?"

"Just how much cash do you have on you?" Angel asked warily.

Spike put a friendly hand on his shoulder. "Enough to run out on you." He gave him two rather hearty pats, then swaggered out of the room.

"You didn't crash those cars, did you?" Angel called after his retreating figure. "You sold them!" Spike waved a neutral hand in response. The dark-haired man found that he was glowering and forced himself to stop.

"I'm stealing Sally," Spike informed Gunn from the door of the recovery room. "Need to make a supply run, and you're the wheels, pet."

"Oh," Sally said. "Um, sure." She stood up and gave Gunn a warm smile. "I'm glad you're doing better."

"And I'm glad you came by Angel Investigations when you did," Gunn said, returning her smile.

"See you in a bit," she called, falling in step behind Spike.

Angel took his place in the doorway, a smile lighting his own face. "Hey, man. You're looking good."

Gunn, with a serious expression, nodded. "I feel good, way better than I should." He used his arms to lift himself higher in the bed. "I should be dead."

"I know," Angel said softly. He started to go on, then fell silent. Anything he said would sound facile. Instead, he held the newspaper out for Gunn to take.

He read in silence. "So they want you and me back." He looked up from the paper. "Why not Lorne or Spike? And this in a newspaper? You gotta think," Charles threw the paper to the foot of the bed, "that they're desperate to get us back alive."

Angel shrugged and stared off into middle distance, slowly shaking his head. "What, alive? After the mass of bad guys they sent after us last night?"

"Well, once the heat of the moment faded, they probably started thinking more creatively. C'mon, you know they can think of something worse than cutting your heart daily from your living body."

Angel turned away from Gunn so he wouldn't see the pain on his face and paced a bit in the small room. "Maybe they want us back because they have more invested in us, and they still think they can turn us," he offered, "or maybe because they think we can make the most trouble."

There was a long silence. Gunn bit his lip. "I'm not going to make trouble," he said finally.

"What?"

"I'm out, Angel. I'm sorry." Charles met his confused look squarely. "You know what I've been through to play at this level, how I've changed." He broke their gaze and slumped against the pillows. "I barely remember who I am anymore."

"You're a warrior – " Angel began.

"I'm a human." Gunn raised up a few inches, then fell back, holding a palm across his abdomen. "I've nearly been killed, inside and out." He lifted his hand, checking for blood on the bandages. There was none. He took in a breath, then looked back up. "That was it, Angel. I expected to die last night. I didn't; I don't know why. But now I'm going back home."

"They'll be looking for you."

"Yeah, let 'em come lookin' for me in my neighborhood," Gunn said, a snarl in his voice. He sighed. "Yesterday I went back, saw some people," he smiled, "helped move a couch. Just day-in, day-out kind of living that I haven't been able to do for years. I may not be able to make much difference in your world, but I can make a big difference in mine. If I can just fight again as myself… it's enough. I'm going back. My mind's made up."

Angel turned around, facing the door. He knew that it was the right thing for Charles, but he felt like his own heart was being ripped out. He blinked a few times, then faced Gunn.

"Okay," he said quietly. "But you did make a difference."

Gunn smiled. "Yeah." He looked down at his hands. "Angel, man, I'm not saying that I don't ever want to see you again. In fact, I'm counting on you showing up, on and off, till I'm an old man, older than that guy Jim. And, if you need me, if you don't have anywhere to go, I'm there for you."

Angel nodded, staring at the floor. He stepped forward and held out his hand. Gunn put his warm one in Angel's, and they shook. "Same here, buddy."

Gunn cleared his throat. "You should probably get out of L.A. for a while."

"So should you," Angel shot back.

"Yeah, well, this is my home."

Angel clenched his jaw and turned away again, harnessing his temper. Charles didn't owe him a single, damn thing, but he would be in the human's debt forever. And he was right, of course. But Los Angeles had been his town for a long time, too.

"Too bad Sunnydale is a sinkhole," Gunn mused.

Angel grunted. "Sunnydale was never safe for me."

"No, I guess not," Gunn replied, but there was amusement in his voice.

Angel sighed and turned back around, shrugging. "I'll figure something out. My guess is, we've got breathing room. If they're using the newspapers, the media, they sent all their forces after us last night. I don't think they held a lot of firepower in reserve."

"More than a dragon?" Charles snorted. He added hurriedly, "But you're not gonna get me to say anything and jinx it."

"So," Angel said, thinking that it was a good time to change the subject. He gestured at Gunn's bandages. "What did that guy Jim do to you?"

A queasy expression passed over Charles face. "It had something to do with the healing properties of his saliva."

⸹

"Quick," Sally whispered to Spike as they pulled back into the lot behind the clinic. "See Jim sitting out back there?"

"Yeah?" he said warily, his eyes going to where Jim was again perched atop the milk crate on the loading dock.

"Lean on me like you're really hurt." When he gave her a sharp look, she winked and cajoled, "Please please please?" He shrugged and let her half-pull him from the truck.

Jim stood up and took a few uncertain steps toward them.

"Sally? What's wrong?"

She struggled toward the loading dock, pretending to stagger under Spike's weight. "Oh, no!" Sally cried, glancing up at the medic. Then she said in a theatrical voice, "He's dead, Jim."

Jim stood with his hands on his hips, staring down at the hysterically laughing woman. Spike disentangled himself and eyed her with distaste.

"Dead, huh?" he said sourly. Jim shook his head at the pun. "Not as if you've never said that a hundred times before. I'm a doctor, dammit, not a comedy club audience."

"She did have espresso," Spike offered, turning back to get the packages from the truck.

"Your friends are both in the recovery room," Jim told Spike as he walked past with several plastic bags. "I'll stay here with the pointy-eared geek."

⸹

"Charles will call you in just a moment from his hospital bed, Mrs. Burkle," Angel said. "Yes, I will." He paused, listening. "Thank you. You, too. Goodbye." He sighed, then dropped the phone into the trash.

"Gunn?" he said, leaning around the doorway. "They'll be expecting you to call."

Charles sighed, too, and picked up the cell phone in his lap. "Thanks." He waited until the sound of Angel's footsteps died away.

Angel went back to the waiting room. He hesitated a moment, looking at the eleven other prepaid cell phones Spike had provided, another one already connected to the battery charger. They were all active, thanks to a stop at an Internet café. He drummed his fingers on his hips, thinking. He wanted to get in touch with Connor more than anything, but he resisted the urge. Giles, he decided. He would have contacts with the remnants of the Watchers' Council and be able to get a number for Wesley's family. Angel slumped in one of the plastic chairs and dialed Giles' cell phone from memory.

The ringing went on so long that Angel was about to hang up. "Rupert Giles speaking."

"Giles, hi. This is Angel."

"Angel?" There was a pause.

"I'm in full possession of my soul," he told Giles patiently.

"Of course you are. Well, how are you, then?"

"In need of your help, as always, but this won't compromise your moral superiority. It's Wesley, Giles. He's dead."

"Oh. Oh, dear." There was another pause. Angel imagined that Giles had removed his glasses. "When did it happen?"

"Last night. I'm at a hospital with Charles Gunn. Spike's here, too." He'd never believed the boy, Andrew, would be able to keep that secret.

"Spike is with you?" Giles asked, his voice sharp. Then he seemed to interrupt himself. "Hospital? Are you all right?"

"We're getting there."

"Were you attacked?"

"We attacked first. I'm not the head of Wolfram and Hart any longer."

"I'm rather glad to hear it," Giles said acerbically.

"You know, I am, too," Angel said, a little surprised by his own words.

"It's very difficult to change an organization from within," Giles allowed. "I know from personal experience."

"Not all of my life decisions have been the greatest," Angel said, heavy on the irony. "Anyway, I hoped that you might know how to get in touch with Wes' family."

"Oh! Of course. Let me think… yes, I know of an acquaintance we have in common. An acquaintance who's still alive, I mean. I'll be glad to get the number for you."

"Thank you, Rupert. I'll call you back tomorrow. Will that be enough time?"

"Yes. Yes, it should be."

"Oh, hold on just a second." Angel took the phone from his ear and listened. He could hear the quiet murmur of Gunn's voice, still talking to the Burkles, water running somewhere, and the rustle and whining of dogs in the kennels, but that was all. His senses drifting out, he found what he was looking for: the two strangers, Sally and Jim, were outside the building. He lifted the phone again.

"There's something new that I think you'd want to know about, even coming from me," he said in a low voice, "two things, actually. I have it on pretty good authority that we're well into an apocalypse, a thousand-year one."

"Good lord. Another one already?"

"Have you ever heard of a… stealth apocalypse before?"

"No. Certain, um, Christian doctrines believe in a thousand-year reign of Christ on earth, but that's very different. I'd have to consult my books."

"You'll probably have to consult the books for the second thing, too. There's another vampire with a soul, other than Spike and me."

"Good lord," Giles said again. "Another one? How?"

"That's the thing," Angel said. "She says she never lost her soul."

"Never lost…" Giles trailed off. This time Angel was sure that Giles was polishing his glasses.

"I don't have to ask if you've ever heard of such a thing."

"No indeed. There are no books to consult. You were the first I'd ever heard of. And then…"

"Spike, yeah." Angel's voice was heavy.

"Angel, listen. If you don't have too much damage control to do in Los Angeles, perhaps you would consider bringing your new discovery to see me? I would quite like the opportunity to interview her."

"Would I be welcome?"

Giles paused for a moment. "I won't lie to you, Angel; I have my reservations. I'll want to talk to you about your association with that firm. Then we'll see."

Something occurred to Angel. "Where are you, exactly?"

He heard Giles smile. "Cleveland. I've taken on the task of establishing a Watchers' outpost on the other Hellmouth."

"You can't stay away, huh, Rupert?" He'd assumed Giles was in the UK.

"Let me give you my direction. Do you have a pencil?"

"Go ahead." Angel transcribed the address, then tucked it in his pocket. "I'll ask her if she'll meet with you, but I can't make any promises. I just met her myself."

"Of course. Very good. I'll expect to hear from you tomorrow, then."

"Take care, Giles." He didn't ask about – he didn't ask about anyone.

"You, also, Angel. Goodbye."

He turned off the cell phone, squeezed it into pieces, and chucked it into the trash. Angel sighed and dumped the remaining cell phones into a plastic bag. A shower, he thought, and clean clothes.

Spike had apparently had the same thought, as he was swearing at the stiffness of new jeans as he tied his bootlaces in the locker room, his hair still damp. "How did the phone calls go?"

"About as you'd expect," Angel replied. "Sometimes I think the Burkles are the only truly decent people I know. Their only child is dead, and they asked how I was taking it."

Spike nodded, then stood, rubbing a towel over his hair. "And Wesley's family?"

Angel shook his head, taking off his shirt. "Giles is tracking down their number for me. I told him about Lindsey's thousand-year apocalypse, and he said he'll check his resources." He thought for a moment. "He invited us to Cleveland and wants to meet Sally, too."

Spike looked up, arrested. "Giles invited–" He changed the subject. "Yeah, he would want to study her, wouldn't he?" He turned away, fear and relief vying for dominance in his expression. The secret of his return was out.

"Would you ask her?" Angel laid his shirt on a bench. "I'm know I'm pushing her off onto you again, but I'm getting twitchy just staying in one place. I feel like we need to move out, but I really want a shower first."

"No problem," Spike shrugged. He tossed the towel in a hamper. "Is Rupes flying back from Bath?"

"No, he's here in the States." Angel shrugged.

"The other Hellmouth. Should have known."

"He already knew you were back, Spike." Angel studiously didn't look at him.

"Figured the spod would tell." His back was to Angel, and an intense gamut of expressions crossed his face this time. If Giles knew, he expected that everyone else did, too. Not one of them had contacted him. "Uh, I'll go ask Sally, then."

"Thanks, Spike."

The blond man waited for the other shoe to drop. When it didn't, he nodded. "You're welcome."

⸹

Jim and Sally were standing in front of her truck, the hood raised, talking about the engine, when Spike found them.

"Did you have the windows done?" Jim asked.

"Yes, but I haven't had the chance, or the nerve to–" Sally looked up as Spike approached. "Hey, you might be interested in this. Jim told me about this place out in Simi Valley that does a special process on windows called 'necrotempering.' It keeps out all of those UV rays that we walking dead find so troublesome. I bought my truck out here so I could–"

"Yeah, sorry, I've heard about it," Spike interrupted. "Listen, Angel is beginning to feel uncomfortable staying put, and since Gunn's better, he's probably right. It's time to move on."

Sally looked down. "Of course. Um, I'll be glad to drop you anywhere."

"How about Cleveland?"

This earned him a startled look. "Cleveland?"

"Yeah, there's an old friend there, Rupert Giles, who's a walking library when it comes to vampires, and he's never heard of a case like yours. He used to be the Slayer's Watcher, and he'd like to meet you."

"Slayer?" Sally asked blankly.

"Watch – he's from the Watchers' Council?" asked Jim in an odd tone.

Spike gave his full attention to the medic. "Yeah?"

Jim turned to Sally. "Don't go." She looked between the two, confused.

"What do you have against the Watchers' Council?" Spike asked.

Jim gave him a cold look. "What about you? They kill vampires, don't they? We Jelashii had a long association with the Council. We're very handy to have around, in case you haven't noticed." He turned to Sally. "They kept us as slaves for hundreds of years, healers on a leash."

"You?" Sally asked, horrified.

"No, not me, but any of us they caught. One of my uncles." He gave a mirthless laugh. "You know, if they had just asked, we would have been happy to help."

"Yeah, that lot doesn't go much on asking," Spike agreed.

"Then why do you associate with them?" Jim demanded.

"I don't. This guy in Cleveland, they fired him a few years back. And, you'll be happy to hear, there was a big bad last year that decimated the Council. Assassinations, explosions – there's not much left."

Jim was taken aback. "Even the London headquarters?"

"Matchsticks and ashes, I heard."

He was silent a moment, then a grin crooked the corner of his mouth. "Good."

"What is the Watchers' Council?" Sally asked slowly.

Spike waved away the question. "You're not meeting the Watchers' Council, Sally, just one guy who used to work for them. He's okay. Mostly, I think it gives Angel something to do. Angel Investigations is pretty much out of business."

"Cleveland is sort of on the way home," Sally mused.

"Don't trust a Watcher," Jim said forcefully. He gave Spike a hard look. "How can you trust him, being a vampire?"

Spike raised his eyebrows. "I don't trust him. Wanker tried to kill me, didn't he, and me with a soul and all." He gave Sally a frank look. "Jim's right. You can't trust him – or, at least, I can't. But he knows things, and he fights on the good side, even if he doesn't always get it right."

Sally looked even less convinced. "He tried to kill you?"

He sighed. "It's very complicated. Always is, innit?" He looked up at the empty sky for a moment, the billions of city lights choking out even the brightest stars. What was that lame old joke? Could live out your life in Los Angeles and never see any stars. God, he hated this city. "Angelus kidnapped Giles and tortured him once, and I sort of let it happen, so I guess it evens out. Karma, all that rot."

"And he's your friend?" Sally asked, wondering who Angelus was. Jim joined her with an incredulous look of his own.

"Vampires with souls, Slayers, and the demons and humans who fight evil with them," Spike said, ticking each category off on his fingers, "it's a fairly small population, a bit… incestuous." He grinned, liking the description.

"I'll think about it," Sally said quietly, darting a glance at Jim.

"Yeah, well, I think you've got until Angel gets out of the shower," Spike replied. "He'll want to move while there's no light. Jim, you might want to go see about getting Gunn discharged."

Sally turned away from him and slammed the hood. Spike directed a shrug at Jim and turned to go back in. He slowed, spun around, and walked backward a few steps.

"Look, all Angel is asking is that you go meet Giles." He started to say more, then shrugged again and left.

⸹

Angel was sitting with Gunn, whose eyes were bloodshot. Spike didn't make any comment, just dropped several sports magazines onto the bed. "Um, Sally thought you'd want these while you recuperate." He turned to Angel. "I'm packed," he said. "Anytime you two are ready to go."

"Will she come with us?"

Spike shrugged. "Dunno yet."

"Gunn's staying in L.A."

Spike met Gunn's eyes and, after a moment, nodded. "Yeah, all right."

Gunn raised his eyebrows, bemused. Angel made an impatient noise. "I'll go pack, too. There's not much."

Spike watched him walk past. He gave Gunn a wry look. "He's going to miss you, mate. He isn't much for goodbyes."

"I know," Charles replied. He pressed his lips together for a second, then met Spike's eyes. "I'll miss him, too."

The blond man nodded again, then eased out of the room. He headed back to the loading dock, figuring that there was time for a quick smoke, brushing past Jim on the way. Sally was on the landing, looking out into the darkness.

"Spike, hey," she said.

"You want to be alone…?" he asked, gesturing back toward the door.

"No, it's okay."

"Mind if I smoke?"

"Go ahead." She watched him light up. "Spike, what exactly do you and Angel and these Watchers and the rest do?"

He raised his eyebrows. "Fight the good fight, make the world safe for puppies and kitties." He gestured at the veterinarian wing behind him.

"Seriously."

"There're a lot of bad things that go bump in the night, and it's getting worse. Someone has to stand against that, and I'm a night thing that goes bump right back. I can't speak for the rest," he said, gesturing toward the building. "Me, I live for the fight. That was all I had before I got my soul back. I'm good at it. Still like it, once more unto the breach and all. What else am I going to do? I fight demons and kill my own kind and sometimes save the day, or the damosel, or whatever. I'm a warrior, pet, and I'm a demon. Can't be the Big Bad anymore," he glanced over at her, "but it isn't like I chose this hero gig. Didn't mean to be here, exactly. Thought I'd go out in a blaze of glory while I saved the world. Ended up… living through the experience."

"You saved the world?" Sally asked, amused.

"Not alone."

She stared at him. There was no shading in his voice, nothing sardonic or mocking.

Spike finished his cigarette and turned to meet her gaze. Her collar was twisted, and she looked deceptively young. "Give it to you straight: you stick with us, or chum around with Giles, there'll be some prophecy or some other big bad that'll suck you into a situation where you never imagined yourself, where you don't know if you can do the right thing, if you're strong enough, whether you'll live through it. But you'll feel alive, and you might make a difference." His mouth twisted with a private smile. "If I got to be a champion, who knows what you might manage?"

"You seriously saved the world?"

"Few times, yeah. Once, when I was still evil – well, that's a long story." He moved close to her, looked down at the space between them, then back into her eyes. Hesitating for a second, he reached out and adjusted the collar of her flannel shirt. "Never alone, though. That's why you can't afford to give up on your friends, just because they try to kill you or something like that. They'll still have your back when it counts." He smoothed her collar and moved away. She didn't seem to have any understanding of vampire hierarchy, but he'd just accepted her presence as a younger, lesser demon but not a minion, his touch a token that he wouldn't destroy her. Probably.

"I've spent my whole life in hiding… you know what I mean," Sally mused. Spike looked over his shoulder at her. She was staring out into the dark again. "I had Henry to depend on, then he was dependent on me for this last little while. I've never done anything… big." She turned to him. "If I go with you to meet–"

"No." She looked over at him, startled by his forceful interruption. "If you decide to go, you'll decide on your own. Have your eyes open, know what you're getting into, know that you'll be tagged as a weapon for the good and someone will use you in battle. But I won't tell you one way or another."

She nodded. "Okay."

Spike grimaced, forced himself to relax. "Sorry."

"No, you're right. I'll have to decide for myself." She walked a couple of steps toward him. "Not an easy life, huh?"

"No, not easy."

She looked up at him, then tentatively touched his eyebrow, her fingers gentle. "Did you get that saving the world? Is that what it takes to scar a vampire?"

"No."

"Another story?"

"Less pleasant, yeah," he nodded, searching her face. No, no understanding of vampire social structure. He could lawfully dust her for presuming to touch him. Lucky for her, he thought chuff-all of vampire hierarchy.

Sally looked down and let her hand fall away, suddenly awkward. She moved back and turned to go inside. "I don't have many stories." Her voice sounded small.

He closed his eyes for a moment, knowing what she had decided, then lit another cigarette.

⸹

"Is that cave much farther?" Sally asked, looking through the windshield at the growing daylight. She was riding shotgun, and Angel was asleep in the seat behind them. They hadn't heard a word from him since they dropped Gunn in South Central.

"Angel said to wake him up when we get to Gulch. You can check the map to see how far that is," Spike suggested patiently.

She flipped through the pages of the atlas to Nevada, checked their location, and sighed. Then she scooted another couple of inches toward him, away from the little triangle of sunshine on the bench seat.

"You're welcome to climb into my lap, pet," he said, his voice full of amusement, "but don't do it on account of the sun. These windows do work. I've driven at high noon, and I'm still here to tell about it."

Sally looked down, her cheeks reddening, and scooted back a few inches toward the passenger door. "Just makes me nervous, is all."

"You're blushing," Spike said in an incredulous voice. "Don't think I've ever met a vampire who blushed before. Didn't know it was possible. Come to think of it, I don't meet many humans anymore who blush." At Sally's dirty look, he added, "What? It's sweet." He chuckled. "You're a nice, Southern girl."

Sally snorted indelicately. "Southern, yeah, but not a girl. And nice? A redneck who's been to charm school, maybe." At his quizzical look, she gave a grudging smile. "It's a joke. There are these two women in the waiting room at a dentist's office, right? One is a little redneck woman, the other is dressed in Prada and Gucci and whatnot.

"The rich woman tried to strike up a conversation with the redneck woman. 'See this ring?' she asked. 'My husband got this for me for our anniversary last year.' The redneck looked at the diamond and said, 'Well, ain't that nice.' The rich woman stroked the fur coat she was wearing. 'My husband got this for me for my birthday.' The redneck woman nodded again and said, 'Well, ain't that nice.' Getting a little put out that she couldn't impress the other lady, the wealthy woman said, 'For Christmas this year, he's ordered me a Mercedes-Benz.' The redneck nodded once more and said, 'Well, ain't that nice.' The rich woman said in this silky, got-you-now voice, 'So, what did your husband give you?' The redneck woman looked at her and said, 'Last Christmas, my husband gave me a year's worth of charm school lessons.' The wealthy woman said, 'Charm school? Did you learn anything?' The redneck woman nodded. "Yeah. They taught me to say 'well, ain't that nice' instead of 'who gives a shit?'"

Spike chuckled. "Still doesn't explain the blushing, pet."

Sally looked ahead, a smile lurking at the corner of her mouth. "It isn't an explanation. It's a warning. I'm old, and I'm a woman. I might blush, but don't underestimate me just because you can get my goat."

Forty minutes later, they reached Gulch and woke Angel, who directed them to the entrance of a cave that was tall and wide enough to drive into. Spike turned on the high beams.

"Do you think there's anything living in here?" Sally asked in a whisper.

Spike gave her a look. "We're badder than anything you'll find in there, Tolliver." He turned off the lights and the truck, handing the keys to Sally.

"Oh. I guess we are," she agreed, not having considered this.

"Do you kill your own spiders?" Angel asked.

This earned him a dirty look of his very own, and Spike grinned at him as they got out. Sally had hopped out of the truck and already had the cot lifted from the bed. Spike and Angel stretched, watching her arrange the sheets in the dim light. Yawning hugely, she took a key off the set and walked over to Spike. He took it, surprised, glancing at Angel.

"Don't even think about waking me up till it's dark," Sally said. "I'm dead tired… so to speak." Settling on the cot, she cuffed her ankles to it. She pulled a pair of stretchy terrycloth wristbands from the pillowcase, pulled them on, then closed the manacles over her wrists. With a satisfied sigh, she rolled to her side. The two men traded a look, but neither figured it was a good time to get her to reconsider her nighly habits.

"That's among the least erotic things I've ever seen," Angel mused. "You want the cab or the bed of the truck?"

"Flip you for it," Spike said, taking a quarter from his pocket. "Heads, I get the bed." He flipped. "Bugger. Tails."

Angel took off his jacket and wadded it up for a pillow. He vaulted into the truck bed. "Nighty-night."

⸹

Spike woke suddenly, knocking his head a little against the armrest. Rubbing his temple, he sat up and listened, trying to figure out what had brought him out of sleep. He looked out of the rear window. Light still poured through the mouth of the cave. His brow furrowed, he sat up higher to look out of the rear window and saw the outline of Angel's feet and legs in the bed. He twisted around and looked out of the open passenger window at Sally's cot.

Spike jerked back, inhaling sharply as the vampire below snarled at him. The chains rattled and the snarl was a bit closer. He sat up straight and looked out again, calmly meeting the demon's glare, studying it as it strained toward him. Nothing was left of Sally's features, not like you could still tell it was Dru or Angel after they put on their fighting faces. He understood why she referred to it as a he, because the face seemed obscenely wrong atop the feminine curves of her body. The eyebrow arches were high, the eyes empty of anything except malice, and the teeth almost needle-like. Spike tilted his head slowly to the side, his lips parting, and he mouthed a name.

In three swift, silent movements, he was out of the driver's window and crouched in the bed of the truck next to Angel, shaking him awake. Holding a finger across his lips, he directed the other man's attention to the side of the truck. Immediately alert, Angel eased over and peered over the side of the bed. Spike heard another growl, and he sat down to light a cigarette.

After a few moments, Angel sat down heavily beside him. "You ever see anything like that?"

"Yeah."

Angel gave him a sharp look. "That was actually a rhetorical question."

"Sorry." He passed the cigarette to Angel, who took a grateful draw and passed it back.

"Her husband had stones, sleeping next to that every night."

"Uh-huh."

"Do you think that's a vampire?"

"No doubts about it at all." Spike lit a second cigarette from the first.

"After seeing that, I'm not surprised at how strong she was when she tried to stake me."

"I'm surprised she wasn't stronger."

"Okay, spill."

"No, think I'll wait until we get her to Giles." He could feel Angel studying him. "I may not have the clearest thinking when it comes to this." He dropped the two cigarette butts over the side, then leaped out to land on them, grinding them beneath his boot heel. "Good night, mate." Spike got resolutely back into the cab, propping himself against the driver's door this time, listening to the low growls coming from the cot outside the truck. It took him a long time to get back to sleep.

⸹

"Wake up, sleepyhead."

Sally opened her eyes, focusing on a shadowy Spike standing over her. "Um," she managed, then took a deep breath for speaking. "Sunset already?"

"And change," he said shortly. They both knew it was ten o'clock. Vampires, after all.

She held up a wrist. "Someone woke up grumpy."

The grim look on his face didn't change as he unlocked the manacle. "Other hand." He dropped the key onto her pillow.

Sally raised her eyebrows, looking at his retreating form in the gloom as she opened the cuffs around her ankles. She sat on the edge of the cot, rubbing her wrists, then carried the cot into the truck bed. Stretching hugely, she joined them at the cooler that Jim had filled with jars of blood and had a quick drink.

"We'll need to get more ice when we stop for gas," she observed. When neither of the men answered, Sally let out an irritated breath and walked away. "Leave the driving to the professional," she called over her shoulder. "I can get us over the mountains and maybe as far as Nebraska by daybreak." She could feel them watching her, so she turned around and stared back, refusing to say anything until one of them did.

Angel broke the silence. "I'm sorry I doubted you when you told me about being a vampire."

They heard her sigh, and she walked back toward them. "Oh. That's it."

Angel shrugged. "Yeah. I don't mind telling you, Sally. I'm a creature of the night, and I find your inner demon really creepy."

"A vampire other vampires fear." Spike's voice was deeper than usual, and he wasn't looking at Sally.

"Really?" she asked, sounding a little pleased. He finally did look at her, and what she saw on his face made her hold up her hands in mollification. "Sorry." She looked down. "I can't change it, you know."

Spike closed his eyes for a long moment. "I know you can't."

Sally looked at Angel, who shrugged and shook his head. She gave her own head a shake. "Fine. Wagons ho, boys. Pile in." Her voice was crisp, but Angel heard the hurt lurking underneath.

⸹

Sally was as good as her word. She pulled into the shadow of a hotel overhang in North Platte at 6:30 in the morning, after a long, silent journey. She handed the keys to a valet, and they made a quick beeline to the revolving doors. Angel slumped on a couch in the lobby, listening with half an ear as she turned on the Southern charm and got them connecting rooms. He watched Spike grab Sally's gym bag to carry upstairs, and he wondered if she would take it as the conciliatory gesture it was.

Their room had two beds, laying to rest a worry that had occurred to Angel as they stood outside the door. He didn't want to share a bed with Spike, didn't want to recreate the family bed in any way, shape, or form. That was just asking for pain.

Sally knocked on the connecting door at seven that evening, an hour after Spike unchained her. Angel, who was closest, opened the door. "I'm going down to grab a bite at the bar before we get on the road. Y'all are welcome to join me, if you like." She wasn't smiling, but she did look over to include Spike in the invitation.

The room was empty of customers when they walked in, and the young man keeping bar looked up from polishing glasses. "Hey!" he said, grinning. "A blond, a brunette, and a redhead walk into a bar…!"

Spike and Angel gave him looks that should have sizzled away any chest hair he'd managed to grow in his young life, but Sally chuckled and went straight to him. "The redhead never gets the worst of it in those jokes," she said. "Usually it turns out to be a dumb blond joke, or, as a twist, the brunette is the butt, but the redhead," she slid onto a barstool, "always comes out on top."

"Top, bottom," the bartender grinned even wider and, remembering his sexual harassment training, stopped just short of a come-on, "lady, what can I get for you?"

"Let's see," she mused, looking at the selection of liquor behind him. "Cuervo Especial, Cointreau – how about a margarita on the rocks?"

Angel shared an uneasy glance with Spike, recalling her offhand remark about grabbing a bite. He hadn't seen this side of her, hadn't guessed she could be flirtatious. She was pretty enough, had a sunny smile, and looked to be about the same age as the bartender, so it was no wonder he was responding to her. Spike tilted his head to one side and started toward her. Angel grabbed his arm and gave him a warning look. "Never thought I'd miss Willy," he commented, trying to distract the younger vampire with the mention of the oily barkeep.

Sally had leaned conspiratorially over the counter. "I'm going to be stuck with Mr. Dour and Mr. Grumpy for the next few hours. Tell me the blond, brunette, and redhead joke. Lord knows I could use a laugh."

The young man went red. "Oh, I," he began, then tried again. "I don't actually know a joke about…" He trailed off.

Sally let him off the hook. "Just the margarita, then. And a bowl of Chex mix." With a final apologetic smile, he turned to make the drink.

"Your boy looks like his balloon just floated away." Sally jerked at the sound of Spike's voice near her ear and turned her head to meet his narrowed eyes. "Doesn't know he's not at the circus, does he?" he asked in the same low, dangerous tone, leaning further into her space. "Doesn't know he's prey."

She didn't budge. "It's kind of nice to meet someone who'll talk to me."

"Doesn't have much choice, does he? Or the guy at the registration desk this morning? The mesmer, is it? Or do you have thrall, too?"

"What are you talking about?" Her voice was weary.

Spike opened his mouth to respond, but turned it into a forced smile when the young bartender came back. "Bourbon, neat," he demanded in clipped tones.

"We've got a special on martinis until–" the bartender began.

"Well, ain't that nice," Spike drawled, interrupting the suggestion. He saw Sally's head turn sharply toward him. "Bourbon. Neat," he repeated, and the bartender looked between him and the small woman. He dropped his eyes.

"Black Jack," Angel said from their right. Then, in a quieter voice, he said, "Now's not the time, Spike." He was looking at Sally.

Dropping onto the barstool next to Sally, Spike looked over at her. There was a tiny, round wet splotch on the bar in front of her, and he closed his eyes, his jaw tight. _Because you're a gentleman, William, you must treat all females as ladies._ He carried his so many of his father's instructions in his head to this day. Spike reached for her hand blindly beneath the bar and squeezed it. "Sorry, pet." A soul apparently didn't keep you from making a complete prat of yourself.

Sally squeezed back, but didn't say anything. She dropped his hand and wrapped both of hers around the margarita the barkeep slid in front of her.

"Let's take our drinks over to a table," Angel suggested, dropping several bills on the bar. His traveling companions nodded, and neither of them looked back at the disappointed bartender. A waitress took their order for appetizers, and the three sat in silence for a moment, nursing their drinks.

"Never took much to tequila," Spike offered.

"Well, it is a man's drink," Angel countered.

"Stop it, the both of you," Sally said, still sounding miserable. "That's what guys always do, insult each other to cover up the real emotions."

"No, I really was just insulting him," Angel said. The corner of Sally's mouth went up.

"You did it, Angel," Spike said, peering at Sally's face. "I saw a definite twitch."

Sally brushed her hand across her eyes and looked away for a moment. "I can't help what I am," she said. "I would never hurt that kid, just… He was friendly. I know I'm different, not like y'all are, exactly, but for a little while there, I… kind of felt like part of something again. I mean," her voice became quiet, almost pleading "we were all bitten, we all have souls." She looked into her glass. "I'm just tired of feeling alone."

Neither of the men could find anything to say in response. Sally drew in a breath. "That's never been said at a hotel bar before, huh? I'm pathetic, I know. Sorry." She swiped at her eyes again and squared her shoulders. She gave the blond man a challenging look. "All right. Tell me what I did to put you off."

"Didn't realize..." He trailed off.

"You strike first," Angel told him. "Something brings up... negative emotions, you lash out to protect yourself." He looked down, remembering how he'd learned all of Spike's buttons, remembering all the times he'd pushed them. All the blood he'd spilled, the bones he'd broken, the sound of his fists on Spike's pale flesh.

Sally's eyebrows rose as Angel became remote. She turned back to Spike. "Tell me what I did, and I won't do it again."

Spike took a generous sip of his bourbon, not looking at either of them. "Year or so ago, a demon who looked quite a bit like you had a go at torturing me until I went mad. It was a while before the Slayer could rescue me, and… it isn't a pleasant memory."

Angel stared at him across the table, obviously taken aback. He started to ask something, but Sally spoke first.

"That's awful." She covered Spike's hand with hers for a moment. "I'm sorry, honey. But it wasn't me."

"I know. It wasn't you."

"That's the second time you've mentioned the Slayer," she went on, her voice crisp again. "This guy we're going to see in Cleveland, he's a Slayer Watcher, right? Is the Slayer some badass demon he keeps as a weapon?"

Spike and Angel shared a long look. Spike broke first, his eyes settling on the empty glass in his hand. "You were the one who first told me about the Slayer. Why don't you do the honors?"

⸹

If the previous night's journey had passed in silence, this one was too full of talk for either man's taste. After making a few connections, Sally began to go quiet, too. Her voice sounded slightly choked after a particularly long silence. "And that was the same Slayer that inspired Spike to get his soul back?"

"That cost me mine, yes," Angel replied. "It wasn't her fault. Neither of us knew what could happen."

"That was the time I was telling you about," Spike said helpfully, "when I was evil and helped save the world."

"You helped the Slayer because you wanted to get Drusilla back," Sally said slowly, signaling to change lanes. "The one that Angel–"

"Angelus."

Spike rolled his eyes. "Sorry, that Angelus drove to madness."

"Right."

After another protracted silence, and when she had finished merging back into the slow lane, Sally gave Spike a sidelong look. "And Angel is a friend who has your back, despite everything?"

"I am, oddly enough," said Angel from the back seat. Sally twisted around to smile at him.

"So you've done all of these things with each other and to each other, and there's still a bond," she mused. "You know, most people just call that family."

The word was too mushy for Spike. "Yeah, Angel is my grandsire."

"So y'all are family."

Angel looked annoyed. "You were older than I was when you were turned."

"Yeah, barely, but that doesn't count nearly as much as the hundred-plus years you have on me as a vampire."

"Wait," Sally interrupted. "When did you get bitten, Spike?"

"Eighteen-eighty."

"Crud." Sally put her turn signal on again. "I hate being the youngest. I've been like this for fifty-seven years." She overtook another car and maneuvered to pass it.

"That explains the old lady purse," Spike drawled.

"It isn't an old lady purse," she said, glaring.

"It's luggage, Tolliver."

Once she was back in the slow lane, she set the cruise control. "Anyway, what were those things you were talking about in the bar? Enthrall and mesmerize?"

"'Thrall' is a ability that vampires can develop, where you can hold someone in place against their will, or even draw them to you, and it becomes something different, stronger, once you've taken their blood." Angel answered. "The Master could do that, to vampires as well as people."

"The Master was your… grandsire? Spike's great-great-grandsire?"

"Right. As far as I know, unless Drusilla has sired someone else, Spike's the last in the line of Aurelius, the Master's line."

"But any vampire can do thrall if they take blood from a human?"

"No. Some can only do it if blood's both taken and given, in amounts too small to make a new vampire. Theoretically, all vampires can do it, but most don't have enough self-control to take just a small amount of blood."

"Vampires are loath to donate their blood just for a thrall, anyway," Spike added. "If they're going to open their veins, they'll sire instead."

Sally nodded. "What was that other thing?"

"The 'mesmer,'" Spike answered. "Drusilla has that. She can… hypnotize people."

"Vampires, too?" Sally asked.

"Most." The blond man was quiet for a moment. "I should apologize, Sally. I don't really think you did either to that bartender."

"Thanks. I like to think I at least have a lively personality," she said dryly, "to make up for my lack of anything else lively."

"I don't know," Angel mused. "You may have a touch of mesmer. I do – not as much as Drusilla or Spike." He caught the other man's repulsed look and shrugged. "It runs in our line."

"So, you aren't normal vampires, either?"

"No, it's just we have more of some traits… more recessive genes, like red hair." This earned him another over-the-shoulder grin. "I've thought about this, having met so many other vampires over the years. We're a little less combustible, tend to sire fewer new vampires, find it easier to keep our human features, stay in 'family' groups, tend to live longer, or at least choose to sire those smart enough to stay alive."

"More ambitious, more vicious," Spike added.

"True," Angel agreed in a tired voice.

"How long does the average vampire live, anyway?" Sally asked. "I mean, exist, before the stake or the sunlight or whatever?"

"According to the Watchers' Council, less than four months." Spike shrugged when Sally turned to gape at him.

"I'm glad I don't live anywhere near a Slayer," she said after a moment, her voice darkened by fear.

"Not Slayers. If they don't just burn in their first sunrise out of ignorance, other vampires kill them," Spike corrected. "You see the same thing happen to annoying young in other predator packs." He could feel the weight of Angel's gaze, but refused to turn around. "So, I guess we're all of us right exceptional and first in our year and all that, surviving this long."

⸹

They arrived in Cleveland at daybreak. Sally rolled to a stop near Giles' unassuming two-story house in an unassuming neighborhood, and they hurried to ring the doorbell. A short young man with rumpled ginger hair answered.

"Oz!" Angel said, sounding surprised. "Good to see you."

He nodded and wasted no time. "Hey. All of you, come on in."

"Thanks," Angel said, casting a nervous glance outside at the coming morning. "I think you remember Spike," as the blond man gave him a nod and a sardonic smile, "and this is Sally Tolliver."

"Pleased to meet you." Sally tried to give him a sincere smile, but failed. She glanced around nervously. Even this early, the house was full of people moving around.

Oz nodded at her. "Giles said to wake him when you got here. I'll just…" he gestured toward the staircase and left them.

"He's a werewolf," Spike told Sally helpfully.

"Really."

"Spike?" A young woman with dark brown hair came forward. "Oh my God!" She flung herself at him and wrapped him in a crushing embrace. "You're alive!"

"Nice to see you, too," he grunted.

"Oh," she said, loosening her grip but keeping her arms around him. "Sorry. I just got back from patrol. I'm a little keyed up."

"I can tell."

"I knew you were alive; Andrew told us. But it's so good to just touch you – makes it seem real."

"Spike," came a man's voice from the stairway, assured and educated. "Angel. You made good time."

The slayer let go of Spike. "We'll talk later," she whispered and, darting a look up at Giles, left them.

"Who was that?" Angel asked, giving Spike a speculative look.

"Haven't a clue," the blond man replied, shrugging. He shifted his attention to Giles. "Rupert! You look uncharacteristically rumpled."

"Er, yes," Giles said, smoothing at his hair with one hand. "It is a bit early."

"Haven't starched the upper lip yet?"

Giles spared Spike a glance, and it was possible that a corner of his mouth twitched. Then he looked down at Sally. "And this must be your friend."

"Sally Tolliver," she said, offering him her hand.

"Rupert Giles," he replied, taking it. He stared into her eyes for a few moments. "Delighted to meet you."

"You have a lovely home," she said, going after the polite conventions as she slipped her hand away from his.

"Yes, it is, thank you. And it's only two miles from the Hellmouth," Giles enthused, "much closer than we were in Sunnydale."

"Where do you want to talk to Sally?" Angel asked, as a tall woman in a tweed skirt and a crisp blouse buttoned to her neck brushed past them.

"Oh, we'll do that later, this afternoon, if you don't mind. A few more people are coming in to meet you," Giles said, giving his head a shake and taking his eyes from Sally, "and to see you two, of course." He glanced at the two men. "You'll have time to get some sleep and freshen up after your journey." He looked back at the stairway. "Oz, perhaps you'd care to give the tour?" The young man shrugged, and Giles turned back to his company. "Angel, if I might have a word alone…?" His look was stern.

"Is this going to be our talk? About Wolfram and Hart?"

"It is, actually."

Angel sighed. "Let's get it over with." He followed the tall Watcher to the right, and Oz gestured Spike and Sally to the left.

"Living room," Oz said, gesturing. "Television is by appointment, except for _Passions_. Everyone watches that."

"Brilliant," Spike said, grinning.

"Spike? Omigod, Spike!" Another young woman flung herself into his arms.

"Rona." Spike grimaced again as she squeezed.

She was closed followed by another girl. "Spike!" He spread one arm to include her in the group hug.

Oz raised his eyebrows. When it became obvious that the tour was over for Spike, he turned to Sally. "Kitchen's this way."

"Who does the cooking?" Sally asked, looking at several feet of cereal boxes lining the counters.

"Supper is by roster," he supplied. "Breakfast and lunch, we just fend for ourselves."

"Pancakes," Sally said abruptly. "I think I'd like some pancakes for breakfast."

Oz gave her a sharp look. "You can do that?"

She shrugged. "Sure. Southern woman plus kitchen equals food. How many would I be cooking for?"

"Don't you have kind of a blood thing?"

She flapped a dismissive hand. "Have to. Pancakes, though, are a treat. How many other people?"

He thought for a moment. "Twenty-three, not including you guys."

Sally blinked. "All living here?"

"For the most part."

"I'll need supplies." Sally looked around the kitchen. "Tell you what, honey. There's a black truck just outside. Here are the keys. If you could get the cot out of the back and bring it in, I'll check the cabinets, make a shopping list. You can have my ATM card and PIN and go to the grocery store, and… I'll make us some pancakes."

"Can there be bacon, too?"

"I don't see why not."

"Deal."

⸹

"So, Angel," Giles said, leaning against the front of his desk and turning to the dark-haired man, then looking past him. "Won't you shut the door?"

Angel closed the door and chose not to engage in intimidation, to see who could loom more threateningly. He plopped onto the couch and slouched there. "Shoot."

"Why should I trust you around my charges?"

"You probably shouldn't, Rupert. I'm not going to stay long. I have a feeling that Wolfram and Hart will be looking for–"

"No, you, uh, misunderstand. Why should I trust you?"

Angel let out the rest of his breath and looked past Giles to a map of Cleveland hanging on the wall. He started again. "Because I finally managed to hurt them. My employees – mine, I mean, not the law firm's – destroyed the Circle of the Black Thorn, a group that had sold themselves to the Senior Partners to become their surrogates here on earth. We paid for it, too, Giles – Cordelia and Wesley and a good woman that you didn't know, Winifred Burkle, all dead. Charles Gunn, too, just a human like the rest of them, nearly died. And I had to ask so much of my one demon friend that he left in disgust. I'm several soldiers down in a war where the best we can hope for is… to just keep fighting. It never ends." He finally brought his eyes back to the Watcher's face.

"Cordelia?" Giles echoed, his voice softening. He couldn't bring himself to say Wesley's name, a man the Council had failed at every turn.

"Cordelia," Angel affirmed. "I'm not going to be lectured to."

"I don't plan on lecturing," Giles said mildly. "But you will answer my questions to my satisfaction if you expect to stay here."

"I said, shoot," Angel said, after a long moment.

"You were there a year before you made a move. Why so long?"

"Honestly? I got a little lost. It was a very comfortable place, in ways."

Giles surveyed him, then took his glasses off and began to polish them with his handkerchief. "You were having Buffy followed until just weeks ago. Why?"

Angel looked away again. "Do I really have to answer that one, Rupert? That's what I do, watch her from the shadows."

"Why?"

"Because I love her. I always will. I might have left Sunnydale, but I didn't leave my feelings for Buffy there."

"Ah." Giles put his glasses back on and moved to sit beside Angel on the couch. He studied him intently. "And how did Spike, who went through who knows what torment to get his soul for the sake of the woman you say you love, come to, to just miraculously reappear in your offices at Wolfram and Hart?"

Angel stared at him, dumbstruck. "You think I planned… Oh, Rupert, you're one to talk. I've heard that you plotted to kill Spike yourself, after you knew he had a soul."

Giles blinked, but his stern expression didn't waver. "Be that as it may, Spike is far closer to being one of us than you are. We seriously considered an… extraction, though Andrew talked us out of that plan. I'd like an explanation of how he immolated himself as a sacrifice to close a Hellmouth, yet turns up restored and under your influence."

"I didn't have anything to do with it and, for once, neither did Wolfram and Hart. An ex-employee of theirs, Lindsey McDonald, got that pendant into my hands. I think he expected that I would be the one wearing it."

"Of course." Giles gave him a brittle smile. "Because it's always about you, isn't it? How did the pendant move from beneath the wreckage of an entire town and into your possession?"

Angel shrugged. "It showed up in the mail, Rupert. When I opened the envelope and the amulet fell out, Spike materialized in spirit form. He didn't become corporeal for a long time."

"He was a ghost?"

"No. Something more than a ghost. He generated heat, was fully himself."

"And you're saying this should have been your fate?"

Angel shrugged. "I think it would have… appealed to Lindsey to have me on the ropes like that.

"There are no ex-employees of Wolfram and Hart, Angel, not in any of the surviving Council records. People don't just resign."

"I wouldn't be surprised if Lindsey was the first."

"Is Spike free to do what he – Are you controlling the man, holding him captive?"

"No," Angel exclaimed, revulsion in his tone, sitting up straight. "I don't even like Spike; why would I keep him at my side?"

"My thought exactly. One reason does come to mind."

The vampire stood and walked away from the couch, then turned to face Giles. "This isn't about Buffy. When Spike first arrived in spirit form, he was bound to an area around the amulet, which I kept in my apartment–"

"Your penthouse?"

Angel glared. "My penthouse at the firm, yes. But once he got his body back, he left. Good grief, Giles, you know Spike – he's all about free will, if not anarchy. I did everything I could to get rid of him – gave him cars, offered to send him as a roving agent anywhere I wasn't."

"You're saying he stayed with you at that place of his own free will?" Giles sounded a little too smooth.

"Don't even go there, Giles. He doesn't deserve that from you. He still has his soul, and he never was that evil to you, anyway – not compared to me, at least. Spike stayed – in L.A., not at the firm – because I wasn't doing what I had done, patrolling, things like that. He took that over, I figure partly to spite me. Then he stayed because Fred was attacked by an Old One, and she had been really nice to him – hell, Fred was nice to everyone. He cared about her. After that, he stayed because we found out about the thousand-year apocalypse, stayed to fight."

"Yes, he's dead useful, isn't he?"

"You people should know," Angel said, suddenly angry. "He certainly laid down his life in your service. You know why I think he stayed? Because he didn't know what kind of reception he'd get – you certainly didn't come running once you found out he was alive. Spike's a champion now, Giles, and I've seen him hold his own, toe-to-toe, with an Old One, and a lot of innocent people would have died without him, and if you ever tell him I said any of this…" he met the Watcher's eyes, genuine menace in his tone, "well, you know exactly what I'd do."

Giles looked up at him blandly. If the reference to his torture at Angelus' hands shook him, it didn't show. "Very well." He stood, radiating a power of his own. "You are welcome to stay for a while. But if you're afraid you'll be followed, for the sake of the people here, you should make plans to leave in the very near future." Angel nodded at him shortly and turned to go. "Oh, Angel?" The dark-haired man stopped by the door, but did not turn around. "W-would you send Spike in to me, please?"

Rupert watched as the door slammed, staring at it, lost in thought. Angel had always shown a wary respect for Spike's abilities, but he'd never imagined that he would hear the older vampire defend the younger. From Buffy's monosyllabic responses to his questions, he knew that Angel was aware of her affair with and reliance on Spike. That single fact, he would have wagered, would be enough to pit the two men against each other.

Despite this new information, Angel was the oldest in Spike's line, which gave him considerable power over the bleached blond. As a Watcher, Giles had a good idea of the forms that power could take, how Angel might choose to exercise it. Spike could be his creature, bound without a single knot ever being tied.

"You, uh, wanted to see me, Rupert?" Spike asked, opening the door.

"Er, yes," Giles replied, turning away, uncomfortable with sudden memory. Angelus wasn't the only ensouled vampire he'd gladly have seen dead. "Please, come in."

Spike closed the door behind him. "Before you get started," he announced, pointing a finger at the Watcher, "there's one thing I want to get out of the way."

"And what would that be, Spike?" Giles asked, sounding weary already.

The blond man looked down, diffidence never setting as well on him as swagger. "The girl, Dana, the slayer who was… you don't have to tell me where she is or anything. I just wondered… how she's doing."

Giles found himself meeting Spike's gaze after all, taken aback. "She cut off your hands," he said, almost in protest.

"Wasn't her fault," Spike said, shrugging. He waggled his fingers at the Watcher in a faux-creepy way. "Didn't manage to really hurt me, after all. She all right, then?"

Rupert stared at him a moment longer. It wouldn't take long, just two or three more minutes, and Spike would say something just nasty enough to kill the warm feeling engendered by his regard for that sad, lost Slayer. No doubt, however he had been returned, he was his own man. "She's, uh… have a seat, won't you? We'll… talk."

⸹

"These are delicious," a tall man with tousled dark hair, an eye patch, and truly hideous pajamas in a tropical fruit print proclaimed later that morning. He swallowed a large mouthful of pancakes and settled himself more comfortably against the counter. "Made from scratch, huh? Where did you learn to cook?"

Sally glanced up from the griddle. "In my grandma's kitchen. If there's one thing we know in the South, it's food."

"Obviously I've been living in the wrong part of America all these years." He licked a bit of syrup from his thumb and wiped it on his pajamas, then stuck out his hand. "Alexander Harris, but everyone just calls me Xander."

Sally switched the spatula to her other hand and shook. "Sally Tolliver."

"So you're the new vampire-with-soul?"

"I guess so," she agreed, bemused, turning back to tend the pancakes. She and her husband had carefully kept the secret for years; here, vampireness was almost too commonplace to comment upon.

"So, how did you hook up with Dead Boy and Captain Peroxide?"

She gave him a cautious look. "You mean Angel and Spike?" He didn't seem too keen on vampires.

"Yeah." He took another large bite from his short stack, chewed, and swallowed before continuing. "I mean, slayers aside, you," he gestured at her with his fork, "seem several steps up from the usual kind of woman they hang out with."

"Because I cooked breakfast?" She slid hotcakes onto a waiting platter.

"No, because you cooked breakfast for dozens of complete strangers." He gave her a lopsided smile.

She looked over at him, her cheeks warming. "Oh. I was just, um, in the right place to help them out."

"I figured it had to be something like that, you taking pity on them." He gave her a smile that let her in on the joke.

"Be nice," she warned. "They're not here to defend themselves."

"Wouldn't do 'em any good if they were," Xander said, shrugging. "Lesser men must bow before my snark."

⸹

After cleaning the kitchen, Sally went straight to where Oz had set up her cot in the basement. She didn't wake until Spike came to unlock her at dusk. She wandered up the stairs a few minutes later, carrying her cot. The house was still full of people: a lot of girls who were fledgling slayers, a good many of whom were gathered around Spike; Oz, who was talking with Angel; and several British-sounding people in tweed and sensible shoes. Sally, keeping in mind Jim's warning, steered well clear of the last.

After a few minutes of the hubbub, she heard Spike laugh from close inside and was afraid that he was looking for her. It was too soon. Sally hoisted her cot again, found the back door, and slipped outside, heading for her truck. It had been a long time since she had been around so many people. Most had been nice; the worst had only been curious. She finished at the truck, then looked between Mr. Giles' house and the street. She chose the sidewalk, determined to walk off some of her nervousness and not embarrass her new friends in front of their old ones. Rupert Giles seemed like a nice enough man, but he had a piercing gaze, and she found she was dreading their interview. Glancing at the house once more, she decided to check into a hotel after that talk.

Sally intended to make a two-block series of right turns so that she could find her way back. As a plan, it was a good one, but it didn't take into account the feeling of unease that started to prickle at her nape. She dropped her hand into her purse and found the weathered gray stake that she always carried.

Unconsciously, she lengthened her stride. Ahead, she saw a young woman also out for a walk, strolling along rather aimlessly. As Sally approached, she saw a shadow fall in at the young woman's feet, trailing her from behind a hedge in someone's yard. Pushing her senses toward the lurking presence, she found another undead being.

Sally sprinted toward the shadow quickly, silent in her sneakers and using no breath. At the last moment, the vampire sensed her and turned, giving her a perfect shot at his chest. As the dust fell to the sidewalk, the woman in front of her spun around.

Sally quickly hid the stake against her arm. "Hi!" she said brightly. "Do you mind if I walk with you? It's kind of creepy out here."

"Nah, it's not too bad," the woman said, half smiling. "But, sure, I wouldn't mind company."

"Thanks," Sally said, still marveling that there had been a vampire lurking in someone's front yard. Welcome to the Hellmouth, she thought. I guess this is normal around here.

"Where are you headed?"

"Rosemont," Sally replied, then gave herself a mental kick. How was she supposed to see this young lady home if that lay in the opposite direction?

At that moment, another vampire leapt from the shadows. The woman in front of her brought up her own stake and dispatched the hapless demon with a telling economy of motion. "Okay," she said, still in a conversational tone. "If you quit pretending that you didn't stake that vampire back there, I won't have to pretend that I didn't stake this one."

Sally smiled. "Slayer?"

The woman also smiled and nodded. She slid the knit cap she was wearing off her head. "I don't think it'll do much good being sneaky now," she said. "Besides, it's hot." She shook out her blond hair.

"Are we both going back to Rosemont, then?"

"Might as well. That was my third slay tonight. Even on a Hellmouth, four vamps are close to the bag limit for one patrol."

"Four vampires, just running around in the open," Sally said, shaking her head. "That's hard for me to believe."

"How many have you taken out?" the Slayer asked curiously.

"Nineteen," she replied, "well, that one made twenty in my whole life."

"You'll rack up those notches in your stake pretty fast here in Cleveland." They made another right turn. "I don't remember seeing you at Giles' before."

"I just got in a little while ago." Sally gestured in the direction of the house. "It's sort of overwhelming. There are so many people. Y'all have a houseful."

The Slayer nodded. "Oh, yeah. You're from the South?"

Sally nodded. "North Carolina. Where are you from?"

"California, originally. I've been living overseas for a while."

"Whereabouts?"

"Mostly Rome. Paris, Bonn, Budapest, too, seeing the great cities of Europe. Not quite an 'if-it's-Tuesday-it-must-be-Madrid' kind of thing, but close." They made another right turn and began walking up Rosemont.

"I've never been, but my husband really liked Paris," Sally mused.

"Your husband?" The Slayer sounded surprised.

"Yes. He's gone now."

"Oh, I'm sorry." The Slayer gave her another look. "Vampires?"

"What? Oh, no, nothing like that," Sally said, amused by the assumption.

"Here we are," said the Slayer. "Do you have a room, or a couch, or a piece of floor yet?"

"Sort of," Sally said slowly, trying to think of a nice way to say that she'd rather not stay in the Watcher's house.

"Don't worry," said the Slayer. "We'll find a place for you." She started to open the door, then stopped. "Giles hates this," she said mischievously, flinging the door wide. "Honey, I'm home!"

Angel was standing there. "Buffy."

Sally watched them both, the look of longing and hunger on Angel's face, the quick joy on Buffy's as she launched herself into his arms, laughing and breathing his name. Angel closed his eyes, and Sally realized that she had never seen him smile before. Buffy gave him a quick kiss on the cheek, dropped her arms from his neck, and stood looking up at him with a wide grin on her face.

Then Buffy saw the man standing just behind Angel. "Spike," she whispered, her smile fading, and the two of them looked at each other for several seconds. Then they moved into a full-body hug, their arms wrapped tightly around each other as if any distance was too much. "Oh, Spike."

Spike lowered his face and breathed in the scent of her hair. "Buffy," he breathed out. Just as abruptly, they let go of each other.

"How," Buffy bit her lip, took a nervous step back, and looked at the floor between the two men, her eyes too bright, "have you been?"

"All right," said Angel.

"Same old," Spike said at the same time.

There weren't going to be any quips, Sally realized, not in this situation. She stepped forward. "Nice to meet you, Buffy. I've heard just a little bit about you."

Buffy's eyes widened as she took Sally's extended hand. "Oh! You're, uh… Sally. Right." She gave a nervous smile. "I should have known. I mean, I really should have known. Slayer." She rolled her eyes, kept babbling. "I got in late this afternoon, while you guys were sleeping, didn't want to wake you or anything." She gave the two male vampires a fleeting look.

Spike gestured between them. "You two…?"

"Killed a couple of vampires together," Buffy finished the sentence.

"Yeah, they're just walking around everywhere in Cleveland," Sally added dryly.

"Why don't I go find Giles?" Buffy offered quickly, stepping past Angel. "Rona, have you seen Giles?" she called, making her escape.

"I'll look in the kitchen," Angel mumbled.

"And I'll look upstairs," Spike said.

"And I'll follow my nose and stand right here while Mr. Giles comes out of the room behind me," Sally said in an undertone, turning to him.

"Rather a painful situation, isn't it?" he asked, giving Sally a grim smile.

She nodded. "Does that make you Merlin?"

"Merl–? What?"

Sally gestured at the empty space that still seemed to echo with emotion. "Angel is Arthur, Spike is loyal Lancelot, and Buffy is Guinevere. The original triangle." She looked up at him. "That would put you in the Merlin role, I guess."

Giles seemed to be weighing this. "Well, the analogy is… apt, I suppose, but, no, I don't think of it as a triangle. And I-I definitely do not wish to be Merlin. I've always thought of Buffy as their Beatrice, myself."

Sally's eyes widened. "Ooh, Dante." She nodded as she assimilated the idea. "I bow before your literary-analogy superiority."

He looked down at her with sudden sharpness. "You seem quite educated."

Sally sighed. "All right, I'll say this just once: we wear shoes, we don't marry our first cousins, and we have world-class universities in the South."

"Oh, no, no. You misunderstand me," Giles said quickly. "I meant vampires, not Southerners." When her mulish expression didn't change, he went on. "I mean, it would be quite difficult for a vampire to attend university. You endured the change when you were, what, twenty, so I assume you're mostly self-educated?"

She nodded grudgingly and admitted, "I've read my share of books over the years."

Giles nodded encouragingly. "Come on to my study. The, uh, others will find us there, as soon as they pull themselves together. You like literature, then? The classics?"

Sally fell into step beside him. "I just reread Defoe. He always makes me want to read Mark Twain, which leads to a whole shelf-full of coming-of-age novels, so I tend to skip around a lot. Mostly I read non-fiction or science, though. It's more useful on a day-to-day basis."

Giles nodded in agreement. "Yes, unfortunately, I find myself poring over musty old tomes that describe demons for much the same reason. Have you read anything by Jared Diamond?"

She had, and they were sitting on either side of his desk, deep in a discussion of longitude-as-destiny when the others began to trickle into Giles' office. Angel came in accompanied by Oz, Buffy followed with Xander in tow, and Spike stalked in looking surly, closely followed by a tall young woman with long brown hair and folded arms. Buffy introduced Sally to her sister Dawn, and a silence fell in the room.

Giles cleared his throat. "Um, now that we're all here," he said, moving to close the door, "and we've been introduced, I guess we'll get started. There are just two things on the, uh, agenda, getting to know our new ensouled acquaintance and some information that Angel, er, uncovered while at Wolfram and Hart. Angel, if you don't mind…?"

"First, I ought to say that any information from anyone connected with that place is suspect –"

"Including from you?" Xander asked pointedly.

Angel's jaw flexed. "I'm not connected any longer. This feels right, though. According to these sources, we're in the middle of an apocalypse that lasts a thousand years, losing the war because we don't even know one's been declared."

"Giles?" Buffy asked, simply.

He shrugged. "Nothing so far. All the prophecies I've found speak of abrupt, dramatic occurrences. I'll keep looking, of course, as will the rest of the Council, in our various resources." He made a rueful face. "So much for the first item of business. Now, I'm, um, going to ask Sally to tell us what I'm sure is her rather remarkable story."

Sally looked uncomfortable, her eyes darting around at the circle of people who seemed bored by the threat of an apocalypse. "I don't know about remarkable," she mumbled.

"It is," Giles said fervently. "Angel and Spike are unique now," he said, nodding toward them, "but they lost their souls when they were sired by vampires. That is how all accounts agree that it happens, from the earliest texts through today." He sat down, examined Sally closely for a moment, then took off his glasses. "No one on record has ever kept their soul, and anything you remember, anything you can tell us will be most helpful."

Sally didn't reply. Behind her, Spike made as if to speak, then stilled. "How will it be helpful?" she asked finally.

"I'm not quite sure," Giles admitted. "It may never be helpful to us, but I'll record it, and somewhere in the future it may be useful in saving someone from being preyed upon by a demon. Or… or not."

"Okay," she said with a faint smile. "I appreciate your honesty." She turned in the chair to face Giles, deciding to tell him her story and ignore the audience. Belatedly, Angel realized that she was surrounded by strangers, but before he could move closer, Spike slipped between Xander and Dawn and sat on the floor near Sally, propping his back against Giles' desk.

Grateful, she met his gaze for a moment, then turned to Rupert. "Well, I like to say that I blame it all on the Nazis." She gave him a twisted smile and shrugged. "I got married when I was sixteen to Henry Tolliver. It was 1942, and he was itching to go fight the war. His mother wouldn't sign the papers for him to enlist until he finished high school. He graduated on a Thursday, we were married on Saturday, and he went off to boot camp on Sunday. I was hoping to catch pregnant, you know, just in case, but I didn't.

"Henry was shipped out to Africa, went on to Europe, and after Germany fell, was scheduled to go to the Pacific before Truman unveiled the atom bomb. He was injured twice, but never badly enough to be sent home to North Carolina. Months after the war was over, he was finally discharged. I expected him home on June the twelfth, 1946.

"While he was off fighting, his mother died. I moved into their family home to take care of it, finished high school, and then buried my own mother. Her appendix burst, and the doctor from our town was overseas, too. We couldn't get her to the hospital in Asheville in time. My only brother, Roger, died at Normandy. My father was working in a factory in Pittsburgh, making armor for tanks, and he was killed in an accident at the steel plant in 1945." Sally's voice faltered for a moment, then she firmed her mouth and shrugged. "All of which is to say that I was rather isolated on my farm in the summer of 1946.

"Rationing was over, but a lot of things were still scarce, including meat. So, the night before Henry was due to get home, I went down to the river to catch some fish. I was too excited to sleep, anyway."

Sally looked away from Giles, and Spike noticed her voice had slipped into the cadences of a natural storyteller. "I wasn't the only thing moving around. It was about ten o'clock and I had two fish in my bucket, debating about whether to try for one more when I… felt someone behind me. I turned around and saw a man in an army uniform standing a hundred or so feet away, so I dropped my line and ran to him.

"I guess I don't have to tell you that it wasn't Henry. I even knew it wasn't Henry in my heart, but I wanted it to be, and I hadn't seen him in so long that I thought maybe I'd forgotten what he looked like. So, although my good sense told me to run away, I ran right to him. Even in the dark, I could tell his face was… wrong." She looked fleetingly back at Giles, giving him another mirthless smile.

"He bit me, nearly drained me, I guess, because I was so weak when he let go that I dropped to the ground. He had just fed, was full of blood, and I suppose seeing me on my knees in front of him… gave him an idea." Sally heard Spike make a hissing sound and his hand fumbled for hers. She gripped it gratefully. She glanced around at the people in the room, and her cheeks began to turn red.

"I was crying, knowing I was going to die, my nose all clogged, big, painful sobs. I couldn't breathe through my nose, and… then… I couldn't breathe through my mouth, so I… bit down," Sally felt the people in the room go even more still and heard a masculine wince from near the door, "thereby completing the blood exchange. I wasn't gonna let go till it thundered." She caught Giles' puzzled look. "Snapping turtles… never mind. Southern thing.

"I remember that he hit me across the face, and I guess he went on to beat the living daylights out of me, judging from the bruises I woke up with, but I was unconscious by that time. He did hide my body under a tree root and cover it with leaves. I don't really know why he bothered. Maybe it was instinct.

"When I woke up, everything looked and smelled and sounded different. I didn't know that I was dead yet, just that the sunlight hurt. I could hear Henry calling my name, but I couldn't move from beneath the leaves to go to him, couldn't call to him. He was with some of our neighbors, and they found my fishing pole. They thought I had drowned.

"The sun finally set, and I went back to my house. I could see Henry though the screen door, sitting at the kitchen table, his head in his hands, but I couldn't go inside." Spike gave her hand another squeeze. "It was my husband who pointed out to me that I was dead, that my heart wasn't beating. Hell of a homecoming for him." She slipped her hand free of Spike's and wiped at her eyes. "Henry and I tracked the vampire down that night and killed him. We went with the full van Hesling – garlic cloves for the mouth, a cross, swing blade, stakes. You should have seen Henry jump when it just turned to dust. And the next night, in my sleep, I became a monster and nearly killed that good man." Sally stopped and cleared her throat, as if to remove the bitterness that had crept into her voice.

"Keeping my soul seemed to make things different for me than for Angel or Spike, other vampires, I guess. I mean, I never knew before. They can talk and remember things when they change. I don't. While I'm awake, I can put on its face, but I don't really change at all on the inside. When I sleep… the demon inside wakes up. Before we got the restraints down to a fine art, he killed five people. Over those first few weeks, we tried ropes, then chains to restrain it; I discovered that only blood really took away my hunger; Henry began to tell our family and friends that I had almost drowned and was now too scared to go outside my own house, at least during the day.

"His army buddies came home and started families, turned America into – you've never seen a decade like the fifties. We mostly stayed in North Carolina, living on the family farm or in basement apartments around Winston-Salem. Obviously, I hid who, um, what I was – sort of like that 60s sitcom _Bewitched_ , except with no nosy neighbors, because I, well, ate them. And a better husband than Darren." She looked down at her lap, where the fingers of her right hand were touching her bare left ring finger, feeling the absence of the wedding band she had worn for so long. "Henry stayed with me, never once gave up on me or let me give up on myself. I would have taken a noontime stroll, if it hadn't been for him. We had to move around over the years, as he aged and I didn't. He lost touch with friends, changed careers. He gave up a lot for me. As far as he was concerned, it wasn't until death do us part."

"What happened to him?" Xander asked, his voice kind.

Sally looked over at him. "Death, his own, this past January. It was a heart attack, but he'd been living with Alzheimer's for several years. We were married sixty-one years." Her voice became quiet. "I miss him every single day."

Xander nodded, a commiserating look on his face, and he reached over to put his arm around Dawn's shoulders. She dashed her hand across her eyes.

"Anyway, a couple of years ago, someone in Los Angeles gave me a business card for Angel Investigations. I kept it because I knew I would need help with the unlocking part of my nightly lock-up. After Henry passed on, I kept going by Angel Investigations until I found them, well, not open, but… staffed. And here I am."

Buffy broke the silence. "For most vampires, waking up is… an empowering experience." Her eyes flicked to Spike, still sitting on the floor. "It wasn't like that for you?"

Sally shook her head. "No. What I mostly remember is pain, hurting all over, like I had a really bad flu bug. Some of it was the beating I took, but not all of it."

"You didn't wake up hungry, knowing that you needed to feed? Or find your sire?" Angel asked quietly. He had looked grim during her recounting of the way she had been turned. She shook her head again. Next to her, Spike stood up.

"Giles, Buffy, come here," he directed. "I think I know the answer to some of this, but I want to see if you see it, too." Watcher and Slayer exchanged a puzzled glance, but did as Spike asked.

"Sally," he said, kneeling beside her again, "what did the vampire that bit you look like? I mean, did he look like me or Angel, where you could still see some human features?"

She frowned, looking at the floor. "I barely saw what his demon face looked like. Remember, at the time, I didn't have our kind of night vision. When Henry and I tracked him down, he never got a chance to change. He spoke with a down South accent, Louisiana, we thought, 'cause he called Henry a coon-ass when he missed the heart the first time."

Spike nodded, his expression serious. "Sally, could you show us your demon face and hold it for a few seconds? I know you don't like to, but just this once." He felt Angel staring at him intently and looked up to meet the other man's gaze. Angel shrugged, almost angrily, not used to seeing Spike in a leadership role.

"Okay," Sally agreed softly, and Spike left her side to turn on the lamp on Giles' desk. She took a breath and the face of a demon rose from underneath hers to blot out her features.

Giles drew back with a gasp, but Buffy peered at the vampire's face, leaning closer. "Let me see your teeth," she commanded, and the demon drew its lips back from the fangs with a low growl. Then it was gone.

"Thank you, Sally. Sorry I had to ask you." Spike switched off the lamp. "Turok-Han, then?"

"Yes," Giles breathed. "Yes, I believe you're right, Spike."

Buffy nodded, looking over at him, sorrow in her eyes. Giles moved between them, breaking the connection, polishing his glasses furiously. "Giles, that's a full-on demon, not a hybrid," Buffy said. "How could a human keep it in check?"

"Turok-Han… that would explain so much," Rupert thought aloud, excitement in his voice. "It must have tried to, um, slip into our world through a sort of back door, but couldn't do it successfully… No connection between your, your sophisticated cerebral system and its much more primitive – no verbal ability, your mastery over it except during sleep… REM sleep, do you know?"

Sally nodded. "Stage three and four sleep. I'm safe around people if I just nod off, but not during deep sleep. I can be woken, like any sleepwalker. And I don't remember what it does while I'm zonked out; I have to retrace my steps by scent. But I don't understand how any of this is 'explained.'"

"I think the demon that inhabits your body is a Turok-Han," Giles began, "the vampire that vampires fear, a sort of primal vampire that we thought was legend until we came up against them last year–"

"They were like Neanderthal vampires," Xander added helpfully.

"They had no language that they ever displayed – did they, Spike?" Giles continued, ignoring the interruption.

He shook his head, looking down. "The First gave it orders, but I, uh, never heard it speak."

Sally, meanwhile, was looking dismayed. "I got Tonda the cave-vampire?" she cried, her lip curling. Of all the people in the room, only Oz caught the reference, his mouth quirking.

Giles was taken aback. "Well, it, it's a good thing," he said hurriedly. "It couldn't displace your soul; it was too primitive, I would judge, to… complete the usual vampire possession. Or, or it simply wasn't allowed by magical law – it was too ambitious, became trapped, perhaps."

Sally was glowering. "Meet my inner demon, Thag, the knuckle-dragger." Oz and Xander, both Far Side fans, exchanged a furtive grin.

Buffy put her hand on the redhead's shoulder. "You're always going to be able to outsmart it, Sally." She nodded toward Angel. "Angelus is cunning and devious; you don't have to deal with anything like that. And you should be very strong."

"She is," Spike agreed.

Sally took Buffy's hand from her shoulder, squeezed it, and stood up. "Thanks, you're very sweet, but –" She moved toward the door. Angel stepped into her path. He held his arms open, and she went into them, hiding her face against his large frame for a moment. She took a breath and looked up at him, nodding once.

"You okay?" he asked.

"You got my back," she said gratefully.

"Well, technically your front, but yeah, I do."

"I was thinking Wonder Woman and got a Hulk costume instead."

"The Hulk's pretty cool."

She rolled her eyes and stepped away from him, but Angel took her under his arm, much the way Xander had his arm slung around Dawn.

"Sally, is there anything else unusual about your, er, demon?" Giles asked.

"There's one thing," she replied, not looking at him. "I didn't know it was unusual until listening to Angel and Spike talk over the past few days. He always sires, never just feeds."

"That is unusual," Giles agreed slowly. "Are the ones you sire… are they like you?"

"No. I've hunted down every one of them, and they all looked… recognizable, like Spike or Angel when they change, they all could talk." Giles continued to look troubled. "Don't worry," she said dryly, "I don't plan on staying here. I'll get a hotel room."

"You're welcome to stay here," said Buffy, shooting Giles a warning look. "I mean, she's already napped in the basement."

Sally shook her head. "No, really. I'm feeling a little like a circus sideshow. You can ask Angel and Spike, I'm sort of… disconcerting when I sleep."

"I'll go with you," Spike volunteered, moving around Giles and Buffy. "It's late; we should go find someplace to stay."

"Spike?" Buffy asked, sounding lost.

He gave her a look that banished everyone else from the room. They gazed at each other for a few seconds, then Spike lowered his eyes and Buffy nodded. He walked over to Sally and removed her from Angel's loose embrace.

They shared a look of their own over her head. "Someone has to mind the key," Spike said by way of public explanation.

"What?" Dawn said sharply.

"I have to be unlocked every morning," Sally said, "Spike's been keeping the key for me."

"Oh, right," said Dawn. She shook her head, meeting Spike's eyes for a bare instant. Spike nodded at Dawn, who folded her arms and pointedly looked away. Jaw clenching, he pulled Sally from the room.

"Every night," mused Oz. "That blows."

"Giles," Buffy said, turning away from Dawn, whom she had been frowning at, "how can a human keep a true demon in check?"

"I doubt that it's anything about her or anything she's doing," Giles replied, shrugging. "I imagine that the process of siring… misfired, somehow, leaving the demon in its, uh, arrested circumstance."

"But she can call it up and put it away at will."

He shrugged again. "But she has no control over it outside of her waking hours. I would say that's evidence that she has no other kind of power or, or abilities."

Buffy nodded, then turned to Angel. "Do you trust her?"

He shook his head. "No, but I don't trust."

She frowned again at this bald statement, folding her arms across her chest. "Does she plan on staying? Because if she does, you're the logical one to watch her. You or Spike."

Angel looked uncomfortable. "Spike's been keeping an eye on her. I told her I'd help her find a way to reliably unlock her chains after she wakes up. That's why she sought me out, after all."

"If she proves trustworthy," Giles interjected, "another ensouled vampire will be a powerful ally."

Buffy shrugged and smoothed her hands down the sides of her trousers. "If she wants to stay in Cleveland."

Out in the truck, Spike took the driver's seat. "We've slept most of the day," he pointed out. "I'm not sleepy."

"Tequila?" Sally asked hopefully.

"Wonder where the demon bars are in Cleveland," he mused, starting the truck and completely skipping over first gear.

"Don't peel out; they'll hear," Sally warned, laughing shakily.

"Bugger the bleedin' lot of 'em," Spike said cheerfully. "Let 'em hear this," he added, his nimble fingers running through radio stations until he found something fast with guitars.

"Are they always that intense?" she asked, shaking her head.

"That little gathering?" Spike said, giving her a sidelong glance. "Light-hearted." He rolled a stop sign and made a sharp right. "Rainbows and lollipops."

"Thanks for saving me," she said, her voice serious. "I couldn't have stayed in that room another minute."

"See if you're still thanking me after the headache you're going to wake up with tomorrow," he warned. "I'm in the mood to get completely smashed."

"Let's find a motel first," Sally said. "I don't like that word, 'smashed.' This is my new truck."

"Maybe the motel will be enough," Spike said, an insinuating twist to his voice. He gave her a sidelong look. "No ensuing headache."

"You're in a reckless mood," Sally said pointedly.

"If it lasts longer than a century, it isn't a 'mood.'"

"I can't… sleep with you, Spike."

"Who said anything about sleep?"

"There's only ever been Henry," Sally said haltingly. "I wouldn't even begin to know how to do that casually."

Spike's lips parted as he looked over at her. God, and he thought he was from a different era.

"The road, Spike. Watch the road."

"What? Oh, the road. Sorry." He moved the truck back over the double line.

"You can drop me off and come by tomorrow night with the key," she offered. "If you go back to the house on Rosemont, there seem to be several slayers who would willingly–"

"No," Spike said sharply. "I don't want – let's just be me and you tonight, drinking buddies."

"That I can do."

"Right, then."

⸹

Buffy walked into the back yard, cupping her elbows against the cool breeze on her bare arms. She could feel him, even though she couldn't see him in the shadows. With a small smile on her face, she waited him out.

Angel moved away from the trees to her left. "You're getting more stubborn," he complained.

"I'm getting more patient," she corrected. "Or maybe I'm just used to being watched."

"Oh." He shifted uncomfortably. "About that…."

"Don't ever do that again." Buffy's tone was final.

"I was afraid that Wolfram and Hart would spy on you behind my back, or make sure that I didn't hear until too late if anything–"

"Never again. No excuses."

"All right! I'll never get anyone else to watch you."

She noticed he excluded himself from the promise, but she let it go. "How are you feeling?"

He made a see-sawing motion with his hand. "Not very special."

"Just another vampire with a soul?"

He nodded, stepping in front of her. "And I'm the one who didn't even want it." He rolled his head, trying to stretch away some of his tension. "So how does it feel to not be the senior of only two Slayers?"

"I'm dealing." Buffy couldn't quite keep a smile off her face. "Despite everything, it's good to see you, Angel. I'm glad Giles made the call for this."

He nodded. "Done any baking lately?"

She grinned. Even with the stress of keeping the Potentials safe, she should have done better than cookie dough. "No, I'm sort of… waiting for the oven to preheat." Buffy traced the toe of her boot in an arc across the grass. "I heard you were actually in Europe a few weeks ago."

He looked up at the night sky. "Well, I wasn't the only one."

She waited until he met her eyes. "I had fun while it lasted," she admitted.

"It's over?"

Buffy nodded. "No responsibilities, no ties, just… fun. It sort of faded. The goodbye was painless."

"Andrew said you were in love."

She looked down, something shadowing her face. "Andrew is a bit of a romantic," she said, choosing her words. "He sees grand passion where there's just… fun."

"I'm glad," Angel said eventually. "You deserve fun."

"Liar."

"No, you do deserve fun."

"So do you." When he made a negating motion, she plowed on. "Stop being noble. You can't atone forever, Angel. And you've had losses."

"I have to say, this has been one of the worst months I can ever remember." He gave her a smile. "At least it ended well."

"Don't," Buffy said, closing her eyes. "Angel, I've been struggling for a long time now with being too hard. I don't want to see you do that, just shrug off Wesley dying, the others, losing the life you'd worked so hard to make in L.A."

"And Cordelia," he blurted.

"Cordelia… died?" she asked. After a moment, she put her hands in his.

"She slipped away without waking up, but she… visited me one last time. She gave me a good spanking about the Wolfram and Hart deal." He laughed harshly. "I needed one."

Buffy searched for the right words. "The Cordy I knew and the one she became after leaving Sunnydale… I know she was different, and I don't want to say the wrong thing. So I'll just say… I'm sorry, Angel. I know you loved her."

He looked down at their entwined hands. "And you love Spike."

She sighed. "I think I will always love you, Angel. Spike… I don't know."

He squeezed her fingers. "He loves you, Buffy. If you two… I won't–"

Buffy pulled her hands away and stalked off. "Did I say I wanted him? Or anybody?"

"He can give you what I can't."

"I said stop with the noble!"

"It's true!"

She marched back to him. "So is this," she said, and pulled his face to hers. When she released him from the kiss, they both staggered. "I'm not giving up on you," she whispered fiercely.

Angel stared at her, his eyes hot. "Don't do that to me."

"What the hell do you think I'm feeling?" She folded her arms across her chest defensively. "If you aren't willing to fight for us, Angel, aren't you even willing to wait?"

He threw his hands up. "My whole world just – everything's changed, Buffy, it's all been swept away, and I don't have anything to stand on." He met her eyes with a look that was half-accusing and half-lost. "Even you didn't stand by me."

She gave him an uncompromising look. "You put yourself in a position where I couldn't. You're a champion, Angel. Stand on your own two feet. Or better yet, walk. Go somewhere and get your head together. I didn't sit and pout over not being special when Kendra showed up; I didn't give up when the whole town of Sunnydale, including my mother's grave, sank into the earth. You know, our way of life? Not that complicated. You know which side is right and which side is evil."

He shook his head. "Not really, not anymore." Angel turned on his heel, went back into the shadows, and was gone.

Buffy dropped her head back onto her shoulders and blew out a long stream of air. Then she went to sit on a bench near the back door, waiting. It took longer than she expected before Spike came to sit beside her. It wasn't a slump, he carried himself too well for that, but he did that thing where he curved his body around her space, an automatic motion that made her feel less tiny. It was one of the many thoughtful things that no one else did for her, and she could never notice except by its absence.

"Hmm, all alone," he murmured. "Miserable, then?"

She smiled, looking at the ground. He could always make her smile, once she began to let him. "No. I thought you might come by."

"You were right."

"How are you?"

"Slightly drunk. Don't tell Sally I drove her truck."

"Wouldn't dream of it. She's a little scary."

"Sally isn't scary, but I have to say seeing her asleep threw me for a curve. Uh, we all hid from the sun in a cave one day on our way here," he added, seeing her eyebrows go up. He put his hand on the bench between them, and Buffy slipped her fingers in his. He shook his head. "Turok-Han. Hoped never to see another one of those blighters."

"Bad memories, I know." She sighed. "I'm so sorry I couldn't come for you sooner."

She felt him shrug. "Got worse memories."

Buffy exhaled. "Don't, Spike. I'm really, really tired of good men beating themselves up for things that can't be changed."

"Which explains the Angel breath."

She gave him a warning look. "You have some 'splaining to do, too," she said. "I remember you giving me this line about how vicious you were to girls Dawn's age last year, but I saw your face in Giles' study when Sally told her story."

"Buffy, I did do things just as… Well, I was trying to get you to stake me, wasn't I?"

"Never," Buffy said, her voice a whisper.

Spike sighed. "Why?"

She laughed softly. "I can give you a hundred easy answers."

"But there's only one that I–"

Buffy squeezed his hand. "Whatever I've needed, good or bad, you've given to me. What have I ever given you, William, other than pain?"

Spike's expression was stunned. "How can you believe that?"

She shook her head. "You were the only person in my life I could depend on, and I got you killed. I knew," she whispered, meeting his eyes. "I dreamed it; you know I did. You held me those last nights when I dreamed, and I still asked you to go. I sent you to your death, because I saw you die in my dreams." She wiped her eyes with the heel of her hand. "Andrew told me you were alive. You didn't tell me or come to me, and I figured I deserved that. And, now you're here. This… whatever is between us, is so intense. We can barely touch each other."

His voice was dark. "We can barely not."

Buffy drew in a shaky breath. She knew what his senses were capable of, knew that he would know what those words had done to her. With anyone else, she would have fled into the safety of the house. She trusted him, though.

After a moment, Spike lifted her hand to his lips. He pressed a kiss onto each of her fingertips. Her lips parted and her eyes closed. He waited until she opened them again. "Know why you didn't call after… once Andrew spilled the beans."

"Do you?" Her laugh was short and bitter. "I don't even know why I couldn't."

He looked at their hands, then let go of hers as if letting go of a lifeline. "But thanks for sayin' it."

"Spike, I–"

"I'd better…" he gestured over his shoulder. "It'll take me till daybreak to find the bloody hotel again." He stood and began to walk away.

"Spike." He tensed at the sound of her voice and turned back.

"Take care of Angel for me. He… he's lost right now."

Spike looked at her in disbelief, then dropped his head. "All right." He raised his face, his eyes closed, the muscles in his jaw flexing.

"I'll owe you one."

His eyes opened, blazing. "Never." He strode away.

Buffy bit her lip. She held her hands out in front of her, watched them shake. Angel might be lost, but she found that Spike's unnatural restraint was on her mind even more. There was nothing she could do for one of them without hurting the other. She wiped away a tear, resisted the urge to go out and find something, anything to kill, and went upstairs to the bed she was sharing with Dawn.

It probably took too long for her to realize that Dawn was crying. "Shh, sweetie," Buffy said, turning in bed to rub her sister's arm. Then, contradictorily, "Tell me what's wrong." When Dawn didn't reply, she asked, "Seeing Spike?" Nodding miserably, the younger girl turned and buried her head against Buffy's abdomen, her sobs strengthening. The blond woman stroked her hair, letting her get it all out. It was almost five minutes later before Dawn sat up, rubbing her palm over her cheeks.

"He never loved me, Buffy."

"Never lov– Of course he did!"

"He didn't even care that I thought he was dead all these months, that I'd never get a chance to tell…" Dawn sniffed loudly. "Buffy, he barely spoke to me tonight."

"He thinks you hate him, Dawn." She watched her sister shake her head so vigorously that her hair swung. Buffy clamped down on her irritation. She had led Spike to the slaughter; Dawn had, what? Given him the silent treatment, and now _she_ wanted comfort? Life was so not fair. "What else is he supposed to think? The last time you really said anything to him was before I rescued him from the Turok-Han. What was it, a threat? An insult?" Fresh tears began to track over Dawn's cheeks, and Buffy gave herself a mental kick. "I'm sorry, Dawn, but it's true. You leave things like that for too long, and it's like they get set in concrete. Once, he would have come back at you until you admitted you forgave him, but he has a soul now. That soul reminds him every moment of all the unforgivable things he's done, things he can't forgive himself for. Why should you be any different? He thinks you're far better off with him out of your life. Out of your heart."

For a moment, she wasn't sure if she meant herself or Dawn. Buffy's memories of heaven had faded as her one access to bliss on earth had turned ugly, had become violent. And even when Spike had atoned, had gotten his soul, there was no return to that bliss. When she was honest with herself, which admittedly wasn't that often, she had been so relieved by the Slayer dreams, so relieved that the Spike chapter of her life would be over.

But it hurt that he didn't come to her after his resurrection. She wasn't sure that she could love anymore, and she didn't think Spike was sure, either.

"He isn't," Dawn said miserably. "He's still in my heart, no matter how much I wish he wasn't."

"Dawnie," Buffy said wearily, "I'm telling you that it's up to you. Spike has loved two humans ever, you and Mom. Once he starts loving, he doesn't stop. You take one step toward him, and he'll be at your feet in an instant. But you have to take the first step."

"Three. You're human, too, Buffy," Dawn said gently.

Buffy blinked. "I'm the Slayer." The weariness in her voice was even more pronounced. Dawn squeezed her hand, then slowly lay back on the mattress. After a few seconds, her sister followed her lead. Neither slept for a long time.

⸹

[Author's Note: The lyrics Spike sings are from The Clash song 'Should I Stay or Should I Go.' I don't think it would be one of his favorites – too popular – but maybe he heard it on the radio or something while he was drinking.]

⸹

Spike fumbled with the keycard a few times, singing snatches of a Clash song under his breath. He slumped against the doorframe and concentrated hard on getting the card to slide into the middle of the three locks he saw swimming on the door. "Hah!" he cried in triumph, then shushed himself as he opened the door. He went inside, kicking it shut behind him.

"Spike?" Sally's voice was small in the dark room.

"Make you bigger, pet," Spike mumbled, turning on the lights.

Sally sat up on her elbows on her cot, squinting against the brightness. "Are you all right?"

"Getting there," came the reply.

"Is my truck all right?" she asked acerbically.

"'S'fine," he slurred. "I been drinking in it for a while." He walked over to the bed next to her in more or less a straight line and sat down. "'If I go there will be trouble,'" he sang, then took another drink from the open bottle. He focused on her, his eyes narrowing slightly as he scanned the loose t-shirt and sweatpants she was wearing as pajamas. "You have on far too many clothes to be alone in a motel room with me, drunk and all. I'm offended." He gestured at her with the liquor clutched in his left hand. "How's your head? Hurts, dunnit?"

She sighed. "What's in the bottle?"

"Tequila."

"Oh boy," Sally said. "Gimme the key, honey."

"'If I stay it will be double,'" he continued in a slurred voice.

"You'll be seeing double," Sally muttered. "The key, Spike."

"Triple." He shook a finger at her. "Can't have the key. You'll get loose. Be all bad, like me."

"I'll lock myself back up in just a minute. Gimme the key."

Spike struggled to get his hand into his jeans pocket, but had lost the ability to do that delicate of a task. He fell back onto the bed and tried again. "There it is!" He tossed the key toward her. "' _Yo me enfrio o lo soplo_ ,'" he continued singing.

Sally averted her face, and the key hit her in the ear. "Thanks," she said dryly, unlocking the manacles. "How was Buffy?"

"Ah, Buffy. She has great hair. Always has, you know. 'Should I cool it or should I blow?'"

"Mmm-hmm," Sally said, going to the door and getting Spike's keycard from the lock where he had left it.

"She kissed Angel. She always does."

"Did she?" Sally sounded tired as she came back toward him.

"Well, she lurves him," Spike mocked, rolling his eyes. "Said she loves me, too, but I told her she didn't." He took another swig. "I only said it so she could get on with her life, what with me dying." He covered his eyes with his hand for a moment. "She wants me to take care of him. Says he's lost."

"Angel's lost?" asked Sally, a little unsure of his train of thought.

"Well, he's all out of Los Angeles, isn't he? Fuck, I hate Hell-A."

Sally took the tequila bottle from Spike's hand, and he sat up abruptly, causing her to take a step back. He had slipped into his demon face. "I'm a prettier demon than you are," he said, giggling, his face going back to normal.

"You're a prettier human than I am," Sally said, bearing the bottle toward the bathroom.

"No," he said, right behind her, following her into the little room. He watched in the mirror as the tequila bottle appeared in it and settled by the sink, its contents sloshing. "You just can't see, is all," he said wisely, "'cause you don't have a reflection. But you're pretty."

"Thank you," she said, turning to face him, positioning herself between him and the bottle. "Compliments from drunken men mean so much."

"That's your schoolmarm voice," he said.

Sally closed her eyes. "And, once again, thank you." She reached past him and turned off the bathroom light. Taking his elbow, she led him back into the bedroom. "Come on, let's get you to bed."

Spike scooped her up. "You're coming, too," he said, waltzing them in a circle. The backs of his knees hit the mattress, he overcorrected, and they fell. The landed on the other double bed in the room, and Sally quickly disentangled herself, rolling off on the far side.

Spike tried to get up twice, then gave up. "Scared of me?"

Sally looked at him from the foot of the bed. "Honey, you scare the hell out of me."

"I do?" he asked, confused. "No, good. Good!" he bellowed. "Why?"

Sally reached across to the wall and flipped the lights off. He heard her exasperated voice float back to him from the darkness. "Sleep on it. See what you figure out, and let me know." He heard the rattle of chains from her cot, then a clink as she tossed the key at him and it bounced against the wall.

⸹

Several hours later, Spike opened his eyes, groaning. He slowly sat up, looking down at his bootclad feet. Gingerly touching his temples, he muttered, "Sod it all. How'd I get sober?" After a moment, he remembered his assignment. He stood up, gripping the wall, and began fishing in his pocket for the key to Sally's chains. He patted his other pockets, then looked over at her.

She was awake, curled on her side, watching him with a mix of wariness and amusement. "Try the floor," she suggested.

"Right," he said, nodding. After finding the key, he walked over and dropped down beside the cot. She held out her wrists, and he unlocked both before meeting her eyes. "Sorry about last night. I hope was I wasn't too much of an idiot." He handed her the key.

"You have a fine singing voice," she said gravely, unlocking her chains before pausing to gaze into his eyes. "And if we had been in Vegas, darlin', the answer would have been yes. I would have married you in a heartbeat... so to speak."

He froze, then gave her a narrow look before the corner of his mouth lifted. "You had me, for a second there."

"Do you remember anything?"

"Probably more than I want to."

"You said Buffy asked you to look after Angel."

"Oh, that." He scooted back to lean against the bed and give her room to swing her legs over the side of the cot. "Yeah, she's worried about him."

"So are you."

He met Sally's shrewd gaze. "You're not supposed to notice that."

"Spike, do you want to stay here in Cleveland?"

He let his head fall back against the foot of the mattress. "I don't know," he began.

"Gut reaction."

"God, no."

Sally smiled. "I don't, either. I'm going home tonight, and I'm inviting you to come with me. Angel, too."

"Where is home?"

"Mountains of North Carolina, just below Great Smoky Mountains National Park. Ever been there?"

He shook his head. "Closest I've ever been would be… Atlanta, D.C., maybe." He gave her an appraising look. "'S'not all _Deliverance_ there, is it?"

Sally blew out an annoyed sigh. "Yeah, I know my tarpaper shack's jacked up level when tobacco juice dribbles out both sides of my mouth equally. Jeez, the South needs a new publicist."

"Sorry."

She shrugged. "I think it's nice there, but, hey, it's where I grew up. I live on the Tolliver family farm, so there's privacy. The house has exactly three bedrooms, so we wouldn't be crowded on top of each other." She stopped herself, shaking her head, then gave him a sincere look. "All I'm asking is that you come for a visit."

He heard the echo of his own words and nodded in acknowledgement. "Okay. I can't speak for Angel."

"Well, let's ask him," she said, rising from the cot. "He's checked in a couple of rooms down."

"When?"

"Last night when you were sitting in the truck. He called from his room. That's why I was awake when you came in."

"Right, then." Spike stood from the floor and picked up the phone. "What room is it?"

After a few short words, he put the phone down. "He's on board."

Sally turned away from him, hiding her delight. "Good."

In his own room, Angel punched Giles' number into a cell phone.

"Rupert Giles speaking."

"Hi, it's Angel."

"Good morning, Angel. I was surprised to find you weren't in residence."

"You've got a full house."

"Yes, but you were welcome to stay, er, somewhere."

"Thank you, Giles. That means a lot."

"Will we see you this evening?"

"Yes, but we won't be staying. Spike and I are going to take Sally home. She's invited us to stay with her in North Carolina for a while."

"I know it's awkward, but we could definitely use your help here in Cleveland, yours and Spike's." His lowered his voice. "Buffy and Dawn will be leaving on Tuesday, and Xander only came to see them. He's leaving on Sunday. Even if you don't feel it best to stay here, there are other places in the city where–"

"To tell the truth, Giles, I worry about what might be on my heels. When I left L.A., I had reason to believe that I was being hunted. It's safer if I don't stay here. North Carolina is certainly off the beaten path."

"Oh." Giles paused, thinking. "Will you leave a number where I can contact you?"

"Sure." Angel lowered his voice in turn. "In fact, if you don't hear from me on a regular basis, I'd like you to send a rescue party. We've only known Sally for a week, and she showed up and was helpful at a very convenient time."

"Oh?" Giles asked. "Not just a trust issue, then? Has she given you any reason to...?"

"No," Angel said heavily. "But how often are people in our world exactly what they seem to be?"

"Good point. Very well, then. We'll see you at, um, sundown?"

"See you then."

"Goodbye."

Angel squeezed the cell phone in his hand until it shattered, then tossed it in the trashcan. He looked at the bright sun slanting against the window, finding its way around the edges of the curtain. It would be nice to have connecting rooms, but this place catered to more solitary travelers. Sighing, he picked up the motel phone again and dialed Sally's room to tell them the plan.

⸹

"Mmm," Sally said, sniffing appreciatively. "Someone's barbequing." She had napped all afternoon, planning to handle driving duties later that night, and was a good deal perkier than either of the men.

Angel parked the truck a few houses down from Giles', scanning the growing shadows. It was just past sunset. Spike, riding shotgun, picked up on Angel's unease. The blond man turned to look past Sally in the back seat at the cars parked behind them.

As they got out of the truck, Sally gave them a puzzled look. "Y'all aren't expecting to get jumped, are you?"

"One can only hope," Spike replied.

Buffy was talking on a portable phone as she opened the door for them. She smiled and waved, then held up one finger.

"Uh-huh, they're here now." She listened a moment. "Thanks for the favor, Wil. I appreciate it, especially since you've had to stay up so late. I'll keep the phone with me. Okay. Bye." She turned off the phone.

"How's Red?" Spike asked.

"She's good," Buffy smiled. "She's in England."

"With the coven?"

"No, in Oxford. She's thinking about enrolling there. She was accepted right out of high school, you know."

"She still with Kennedy?"

Buffy's smile faded. "No."

Spike's expression sharpened. "She's not…?"

"No, no. She broke up with Willow, that's all."

"Oh. Always thought it'd be the other way around. New bird's no Tara." Spike's face cleared, and he grinned, remembering something. "Red heartbroken… she up to casting any more accidental spells, you think?"

Buffy gave him a smirk, then turned to Angel. "She is casting a spell, actually, a variation of a locator spell." She gestured to include all three of them. "We're all curious to see if anyone else is out there like you guys. Come on to the kitchen," she said, beckoning them further inside.

She glanced back as she walked. "Since you're all here, she can isolate your essences and look for others that are like yours, see if there are other vampires with souls anywhere in the world."

She saw Sally tug on Angel's sleeve. "She's talking about Willow, the one who restored your soul?" At his nod, she asked even more softly, "This essence thing… it won't hurt or anything, will it?"

"She's basically just looking at us. We won't feel a thing."

"Oh." Sally frowned. "That's kind of creepy."

Angel shook his head ruefully. "Oh, no. It's creepy when you're being watched magically, and you don't know it."

"Spike!" The slayer named Rona came over and claimed him, steering him back out of the kitchen.

"Excuse me, Buffy, Sally," Angel said. He had spotted Xander outside, presiding over a grill and surrounded by several hungry slayers. "I need to talk to Xander."

A look of comprehension crossed Buffy's face. Cordelia. "Of course." She turned to Sally. "And how are you?"

"A little out of my depth," Sally admitted, gesturing around. "Spells, slayers… I may have been a vampire for almost sixty years, but I never suspected magic like this really existed."

Buffy raised her eyebrows. "Seems normal to me, but I've been living with it since I was fifteen."

"Wow," Sally said. "That's young. It doesn't seem fair to saddle a fifteen–"

"Tell me about it. All's fair in love and slayage, I guess." She turned to walk away, but Sally put her hand on Buffy's arm.

"Buffy, could I talk to you?" She glanced outside to where Angel and Xander were talking quietly. "I mean, somewhere away from the vampire range of hearing?"

Buffy gave her an assessing look. "Sure. You want to take another walk? There's something I need to ask you about, anyway." They were silent for the first block as they walked past houses, tripping security lights every so often.

"What did you want to ask?" Sally asked, her eyes scanning the shadows on the other side of the street.

"Willow was wondering about something, actually. In North Carolina, you'll be on family land?"

"Mm-hmm."

"How long has your family lived there?"

"Oh… " Sally looked up at the sky, thinking. "Well, I live in the Tolliver farmhouse, and the land's been in his family since before the Revolutionary War… About two-hundred-and-fifty-years." She looked over at Buffy. "Not that I can't rattle on about it – Southerners and family history – but why on earth would your friend want to know?"

"Um, something magical about ancestral homes and thresholds and warding spells. If the bad guys are looking for Angel, Willow says it'll be harder for them to find him somewhere that's been a home for a long time. It has a sort of natural protection."

"Oh," Sally said, looking thoughtful. "Well, that's good. I don't mind telling you, in Los Angeles, the three of them were pretty beat up. I didn't think Gunn was even going to make it to the clinic."

"They had been in a fight?"

Sally shook her head. "I've seen bar fights before. It looked like they'd been in a battle."

"So, you wanted to talk to me about something? What's up?" Buffy asked, changing the subject. Angel hadn't called her for the battle. Of course, she had turned him away from the final battle in Sunnydale. She gave her head a little shake, forcing herself to focus on what the other woman was saying.

"Well, I'm going to poke my nose into where it doesn't belong. I'll admit up front that I've been lonesome for a while. Finding Angel and Spike, who understand what it's like to be both decent and demon… The past few days have been some of the happiest for me in years, with people who know I'm a vampire and still accept me. They haven't been the happiest for Spike and Angel, though." Sally gave her a sidelong look. "Spike told me that you'd asked him to watch out for Angel. I think you're right to be concerned about him. I haven't known Angel very long, but he's been hard-used lately." She paused a moment, choosing her words.

"I saw your face yesterday when you opened the door and found Angel there," Sally said, and Buffy's current expression became unreadable. "I know exactly what you were feeling, because that's how I loved Henry, my husband."

Buffy looked down, then her mouth went firm. "Yeah, well."

Sally sighed. "I saw Angel's face, too. It was the first time I'd seen him smile. I've heard enough to know why you two stay away from each other." She gave Buffy a piercing look. "You can't love two men with that same quality of love."

Buffy looked ahead, a cynical smile on her face. "So this is about Spike."

Sally's voice softened. "It's about all three of you, isn't it? I told Giles that it's like Guinevere with King Arthur and Lancelot, a good woman in love with two worthy men."

Buffy stopped walking and turned to Sally, looking a little stunned. "Oh, my God." She smiled and shook her head. "You think?" Then the smile faded, and she began to walk again. "That didn't end well, huh?"

"Buffy, I lost my husband this past spring, but I lost him a little bit every day over the past decade to the Alzheimer's. I wouldn't have given up a minute of the time we had before then. I regret every moment we didn't spend together." She grimaced. "This is so not my business."

"No, but since that obviously isn't going to stop you, go on." Buffy's voice was cold. She knew where this was going now and couldn't believe how much she had felt sorry for this woman just yesterday.

"I recognized the love you have for Angel, and I've heard enough to know why you're not making each other happy. But I don't have a clue about what's between you and Spike. He saw you last night and then got dog-drunk, Buffy. You both are hurting, anyone can see that, including Angel. Don't you think it would be better to just end whatever this is with Spike, for your sake, and his, and Angel's?"

Buffy stopped again, facing Sally with an unfriendly look. "What I feel for Spike is real. I don't have to explain myself, especially not to complete strangers."

Sally didn't back away. "You love Angel, flat-out, above-board love. What you and Spike feel… love or not, there isn't a lot of light there."

"The only two people who know what we went through together are Spike and me," Buffy said fiercely. "Believe me, you couldn't begin to understand what we have."

"Probably not. Will you answer two questions for me, at least?"

"I doubt it."

"Do you feel responsible for Angel?"

"No. He can take care of himself."

"Do you feel responsible for Spike?"

Buffy didn't answer that question. She glared at Sally, then stalked away.

Sally shook her head, but kept pace. "I've seen them together every day for a week," she said. "They care about each other, they're… family. But they walk on eggshells all the time."

"Because of me," Buffy sneered. "It's all my fault."

"No, it isn't," Sally said, her voice heavy.

Buffy slowed, casting a surprised glance at the redhead. She raised an eyebrow, waiting for her to elaborate.

Sally shrugged. "Oddly enough, you're one of the few things they agree on. They both understand perfectly why the other would be in love with you. Neither of them will say a bad word about you; neither of them would let the other say a bad word about you. But they're very competitive, like brothers, and you're… I've never been in an epic romance situation, Buffy," she said, "and I wouldn't want to be. I've loved one man, ever. I've barely ever even… desired anyone else."

Buffy let her head fall back, looking up at the sky. "I have. I have two total hotties in love with me, and one of them can't – well, he can, but we really can't – and the other one won't. He touches me like… like I'm made of glass."

It was more than Sally wanted to know. "I just like to see folks happy, Buffy."

"So do I. I like happy. That's why I'm not going to break anyone's heart." She looked around, finding they had circled nearly back to Rosemont. Thank God.

"Oh, honey. Hearts can break fast, or they can break slow. My heart broke every time Henry looked at me without any… recognition in his eyes. I just think that you're wasting time that y'all are gonna regret later."

"Me… and Angel."

"That kind of love kept me happy for over sixty years."

"It's not that easy. And, anyway, it's not about them, either of them. It's about me. I'm not ready to… settle down."

Sally nodded slowly, then stopped walking. "And maybe by the time you are, you won't have to decide. One of them will settle for someone else, someone who will never be you. Or, one of you will die. You seem to live dangerous lives." There was a thin thread of contempt in her voice.

Buffy stopped, too, looking at her with something close to hatred. She half-raised the stake in her hand. She swallowed and lowered her weapon. "Yes, I have thought of that. Yes, it would make things easier." She looked away, sweeping her hair back from her face. "And if I chose one, do you think the other would put it behind him and get on with his life? Really? Until I get killed, and Slayers always do, I'll have to call on each of them to help me fight, because they're champions in a world where there are damn few. I'll have to see them both until death do us part, and it hurts each and every time. God knows, I've tried to move on. I've tried to fall in love with someone else. But who can compare to–" She made an angry gesture, then stilled. "Thanks. Thanks a lot for ripping the scab off."

Sally didn't apologize. "Buffy, they're just men. It's always up to us women to make the hard choices. I'm just saying that the sooner you do, the happier you all will be."

Buffy gave her a sharp look. "You like Spike, don't you." It wasn't a question.

Sally looked away. "I've been widowed for four months, Buffy. It's going to be a long time before I even think about… if ever. My demon takes over on a nightly basis. I'm a bad proposition." She met the blond woman's eyes. "Yes, I like Spike. I like Angel, too. But I wouldn't give it a go with either of them. They're worst propositions than I am."

Buffy turned away from her, and they began walking again. They were bad propositions, and so was she.

"I'm sorry. I'll be out of your hair soon; we're leaving tonight."

"So this was a hit-and-run?" Buffy hated the sneer she heard in her voice, couldn't stop it.

"Yes, I guess it was." Sally stared at the sidewalk. "All my girlfriends are dead, Buffy, but I had to say my goodbyes to them years ago, when they started to get older and I didn't. Henry and I were – we were all we needed. I'm kind of rusty when it comes to talking to people." She glanced at Buffy. "But yesterday I met a young woman who seemed… strong, fearless… nice, kind. I liked you. I liked you just from hearing how Angel and Spike spoke of you. I wouldn't have said any of this if I didn't." She lifted her shoulders. "Also, I guess I'm being a little selfish. They're going to be my houseguests for a while, and I'd like to see them happy. It would be nice to see Angel smile occasionally, and it would be really nice not to have to separate Spike from his tequila bottle again."

"He drinks tequila?" Surprise made her blurt the question. It had always been bourbon in Sunnydale.

"I think Angel needled him into it."

Buffy looked up. They were just two lawns away from Giles' house, so she stopped. "I'm the senior Slayer, the chosen One, the original One. I've died, given my life to save all this," she gestured around vaguely, "and I've given orders that have gotten people killed. The other slayers… defer to me. I _made_ them, created them. I'm their general, and I wouldn't have it any other way.

"I know all about making hard decisions. I'm getting better at listening to other opinions, so I'm not going to stake you for what you've said or anything. But I can't make a decision based on love. I did once, and it took a long time to recover, and then I did again, and the price…" She took a breath, pushed away the pain of where she was not. "My responsibility is to keep the two men I love as weapons, as warriors who fight against evil. I can't risk alienating them from that mission." She stared hard at Sally, as if daring her to contradict this. "I've sacrificed them both before. I never want to have to do that again. But I would. If I had to, I would."

Looking a little shocked, the red-haired woman swallowed, then nodded. She reached out and took Buffy's hand in her own cold one. "I had no idea. This is way more than…" She looked away, dropped Buffy's hand and turned toward the house.

"I'm not finished," Buffy said, and Sally stopped, looking back at her. "I also can't risk either of them in any other way. I liked you, too, the way you helped out with the vampires yesterday, from hearing your story. So I'll tell you straight up, I don't make threats, only promises. If you lead either of them into harm, I will find you and I will kill you." Buffy gave a hard, bright smile. "I can do that, because you're a demon."

After a long moment, Sally replied, "I wouldn't hurt either of them any more than you would." She walked away.

Buffy started after her, alarmed, but before she could open her mouth, the phone she had jammed in her pocket rang. "Hello?"

"Buffy, sorry that took so long."

"Oh, no, Wil, I'm just glad that you could do it. So, what's the verdict?"

"You've got the world's only three ensouled vampires right there. I wouldn't have found the new one, if I wasn't looking. Her essence is a little different."

"I'm not surprised. Giles and Spike figured out why." Buffy took a breath and changed the subject. "I'll tell you about it later. You sound perky, for someone who's up late."

"Well, that was a pretty cool spell. It mellowed me right out."

"Send some of that mellow my way, okay?"

"Let's see. Angel: major angst. Spike: major angst. Buffy, I don't know if I've got that much mellow."

"Thanks, anyway, Wil. Oh, the North Carolina place? Two-hundred-and-fifty years. How does that work?"

"That should work great. I'll keep them on my radar and try to throw a subtle protection spell over their location, too, once they get there."

"Do they need to know about it for it to work?"

"No," Willow said, sounding puzzled.

"Good. I won't tell them, then. Thank you, Wil. I love you."

"I love you, too, Buffy. Ooh, give love to Xander and Oz, too." She paused, and Buffy smiled at her mental image of Willow's oops face. "You know what I mean."

"Good night, Willow."

"Night, Buffy."

Buffy thumbed the phone off and slowly walked toward the house, thinking. As she went up the steps, it took her a moment to realize that someone was trying to get her attention.

"B.?" Faith was standing in the door, looking amused. "You're off in your own little world."

Buffy tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and gave Faith a slightly forced smile. "Faith! When did you get in?" The two Slayers exchanged a hug.

"Just a few minutes ago. We would have been here sooner, but Robin was driving. He wouldn't stop to ask directions."

"How's Miami treating you guys?"

"It's awesome, Buffy." Faith ducked her head to the side. "Except for the hurricanes."

"Any trouble with the law?"

"No, I've been Miss Low Profile."

"Good. And how are things with Robin?" she asked, a teasing tone in her voice.

"I thought we had it settled about who's best in the sack, but he keeps surprising me."

"And now I'm officially jealous," Buffy said, going past Faith into the house.

"Why? I saw Spike just a minute ago. Angel's supposed to be around somewhere, too, only I can't find him."

Buffy raised an eyebrow. "Ergo the problem… as people keep telling me." Buffy put the phone down. "Angel was in the back yard with Xander, last time I saw him."

Faith led the way through the kitchen and out the door. The barbeque had turned into a bit of a party. Someone had brought out a stereo, and Xander was dancing with Dawn. Rona had roped Spike into an impromptu training session, and he was repeatedly and tolerantly grabbing her from behind as she tried – or at least pretended to try – to throw him. Angel was talking to Giles. Both vampires looked toward the door as Buffy stepped out.

Then Angel noticed Faith. A wide smile broke across his face, and Buffy felt her own falter a little. Faith flung herself against Angel, exhilarated to see him, nearly toppling both of them over. "Hey, there's my guru!"

"How are you, Grasshopper?" he replied, giving her another hug.

"Good, good. Where's Robin? I've got to introduce him to the other man in my life."

"How's my guru?" a deep voice asked by Buffy's ear. She jumped a little and turned to find Spike looking at her with concern.

"Am I your guru?" she countered, taken aback.

"'Course." He smiled at her, lifted her fingers, and pressed them to his chest. "Among other things."

"Spike! You're not getting off that easy," Rona called.

A sneer settled on his lips, and he backed away from Buffy. "Got to go be a chew toy for your young pups," he said sardonically.

Rona turned her back, and he dove for her. She ducked, and as he sailed past, she lunged. Rona timed it right this time, and she wound up astride him, a stake pressed against his breast. She grinned exultantly and leaned over him so her face was inches away from his.

"Baby, I've been dreaming about this day ever since I found out you were still alive. Now, isn't this the part where we make out?"

In a twisting flurry of movement, Spike rolled them both over, trading positions with her. "No," he replied, pressing her stake against her throat, "this is the part where I remind you that a slayer must always hold on to her own tool," he leaned so he was close to her face, "and not worry about mine." He dropped a kiss on the tip of her nose, then stood in one fluid motion. Rona lay supine, looking a little stunned as she stared up at him. Spike tucked the stake into his back pocket, then held his hand out for her.

She took it, letting him haul her to her feet, putting her hands against his chest to steady herself. "I'm gonna… go take a cold shower or something," she said, sounding almost as dazed as she looked.

"You do that," Spike advised. He looked around, surprised that, of the crowd of people around them, only Buffy had watched the performance. Angel was smiling down at an animated Faith as he talked to her and Wood; otherwise he would surely have had a smart remark. He watched Rona go into the house, then went to where Buffy was leaning against the grill.

"When did they stop thinking of me as a chew toy," he asked her, patting his pockets futilely for cigarettes, "and start thinking of me as a sex–"

"Boy toy?" Buffy quickly substituted. He nodded, raising an eyebrow. She shrugged. "My guess? Andrew."

"That would explain it. Honestly, he thinks more of me than I do."

"Come inside with me?" He gave her a curious look, but nodded.

It was quiet in the house, as most everyone who wasn't in the backyard was out on patrol. He could hear the murmur of Oz's voice from somewhere, then Sally's indistinct reply. Spike followed in Buffy's wake as she led him upstairs and into a bedroom. She reached past and closed the door behind him, then slowly pressed her body against his. Spike's arms went around her, but he stood rigid, searching her face in the dim light.

"I want you," Buffy whispered.

"You… do?" She was so close, she would know what her words had done to him. "And what about the Immortal?"

She looked down. It hadn't taken her long to figure that one out for herself. "He couldn't lose, so he never had to risk anything," she said simply. "That wasn't ever going to be enough for me." She met his eyes. "I saved him from a couple of Percontolaus demons, and it wasn't the same after that. I just sort of asked myself, why am I with this guy? It wasn't love."

"And it was nice to be around someone you couldn't get killed."

Buffy blinked. Spike had always been able to see the things she overlooked, or didn't admit to herself. It used to frighten her. "Yes. It was."

"And Willow hasn't cast any spells?" Despite his words, his face was still serious.

She grinned, grateful for a lighter mood, her hands running along his shoulders. God, his body was unreal. "Feel compelled to ask for my hand in marriage?"

"You're sure?" She nodded, and it was, finally, enough. He leaned back against the door and lifted her against him, raising his face to meet hers.

⸹

Oz had led Sally through a window onto the overhang above the back door. The porch light was beneath them, and as far as Oz could tell, no one in the back yard had noticed that they were there.

He finished examining Sally's wrist. "So, you look like early John McEnroe, but the payoff is there."

"Exactly. I highly recommend the wristbands if you ever have to go with manacles."

"Mostly, I did cages."

"We tried that, but my demon isn't above hurting my body if he can't hurt anyone else's."

"Ouch." Oz looked out across the yard. He pointed to the east. "There's a Catholic church in that direction, which makes me think," he paused, giving her a sideways look, "have you considered exorcism?"

Sally nodded. "I figured that, if they got the demon out, there I'd be, all dead since 1946."

"That's true," he agreed, "but what if you had a defibrillator on hand? Maybe you'd get a Jesuit who's a doctor and a priest, and he could reanimate you. I mean, you do have a soul."

"It's alive," Sally cried in her best Boris Karloff voice.

Oz's smile faded as he squinted into the darkness of the big back yard. He lifted his face, nostrils flaring, but there was no wind. "Who are those guys?"

⸹

Spike lost himself in the sound of Buffy's breathing, her scent, the feel of her hands beneath his shirt. She wriggled from his grasp and pulled him toward the bed. They tumbled onto it, side by side. Buffy found his mouth again and wound her arms around his neck. Spike rolled over and pulled her astride him, breaking their kiss. "This," he murmured, "is the part where we make out."

She smiled down at him. One of her knees slid off the edge of the bed, and she eased over so that they were side-by-side again. She ran her hand over his stomach, feeling his muscles tense. "How are those ribs?" she whispered.

His eyes were dark as he watched her. "Rock solid."

"Mmm," Buffy managed, lifting her face to his, capturing his full lower lip. Part of her did it to keep him quiet; people were downstairs. Angel was downstairs.

Angel was downstairs with Faith.

Buffy pulled Spike over top of her, running her hands along his thighs and up to his back. She didn't want to think about guilt or jealousy, just this. His scent surrounded her, and he settled his body onto hers. She heard him say her name fervently.

In that instant, she felt smothered, pinned by his weight. She couldn't see his face, but she had an overwhelming memory of him looking completely unlike himself, unlike even his demon. Buffy froze, trying to rid herself of the onrushing panic. There were other memories where his face was above hers, memories involving mutual passion, a certain affection. This was William, not the soulless thing he had once been, but it didn't matter to her fraying emotions. That particular memory was seared into her. This was wrong; she'd always known it was wrong; every time they'd been together was wrong. Angel would hear. Her hands went from his back to his chest, her fingers pressed flat between them. "Spike, no. Stop."

Spike froze, too, lifting his head so he could see her eyes. In a flash, he was gone, facing the door, his head bowed. Cool air washed over Buffy where his body had been, and she sat up on the edge of the bed, pulling her knees to her chest and wrapping her arms around them.

"Spike, I am so–"

"No." He turned his head but didn't lift it. "Never apologize."

"This isn't fair! You didn't have a soul, y-you couldn't understand the difference… I never meant it any of the other times I told you not to. And you were there for me when no one else was –" certainly not Angel "– I should – I'm the Slayer," Buffy said miserably. "I should be stronger than this."

"You're only human, love."

"I thought… it was so long ago." Her voice was shaky. "Is that why, before, you wouldn't…?"

"After you rescued me from the First, you mean?" He lifted a hand and braced himself against the door. "I never felt worthy, Buffy." Spike sighed. "I'll never be worthy; I'll always be beneath you."

Buffy stood and reached toward him, tears standing on her cheeks at those words. All of her was messed up; she didn't want him to think… "No!" But she didn't touch him.

He gave her a grim smile over his shoulder. "Never happen, pet." He reached for the doorknob.

"William," she whispered, but he didn't pause. Buffy watched the door shut behind him, her hand pressed to her mouth.

⸹

"They're vampires," Sally said softly, lifting her head. "They smell like jet fuel and," she turned her head slightly, "Los Angeles."

Oz eased up onto his haunches, joining her, his own nostrils flaring. "Eight of them?"

"Yes," she said, but her tone was doubtful. "At least." Sally looked over at him. "Do any of them have weapons?" She gestured at the people in the back yard.

"Probably half."

They watched the shadowy figures spread out. "Angel thought someone might be after him," Sally said. "Vampires won't stop just with Angel."

"I'll get stakes from the weapons safe downstairs and bring them out the kitchen door." Oz moved stealthily back through the window and was gone.

Sally watched the flanking movement, feeling helpless. Angel was roughly fifteen feet ahead of and below her, slightly to her left, facing the house and still talking with a tall black man and a pretty, dark-haired girl. She saw the vampires hunker down, saw several heads turn toward one point. They were waiting for a signal.

"C'mon, Oz," she muttered, pressing herself low to the rough shingles. Sally scanned the area near the door, looking for anything that could be used against the attackers. The knife Xander had been using to share up the steaks was the only thing she could spot.

Her stomach lurched as she saw two of the vampires leave the protection of the trees and start toward Angel. Beneath her, she heard hurried footfalls in the kitchen. She relaxed; this would be okay. She could handle two of them until the other people on the lawn were armed.

As the door beneath her opened, Sally launched herself from the overhang. Spike, coming out of the kitchen, watched her fly overhead, thinking for the barest moment that it was Rona again. She landed on her shoulder and rolled, coming to a crouch next to the grill. Spike recognized the brightness of Sally's hair, saw her snatch up something, then saw the two demons running toward Angel.

Sally hurtled into Angel, knocking him away from the vampires and into Faith and Robin. Bouncing off him, she twisted until her back was to the closest oncoming vampire. She brought her arm up, holding the carving knife so that the blade lay along her forearm. Spinning, she aimed for the demon's throat, and put as much muscle as she could behind the blow.

Once Spike realized that Sally was taking point, he only had time to register again that she was very strong before he felt his game face slip into place. The violence called to him, sang in his blood, blotting everything else out. He charged forward, watching as the beheaded vampire went to dust. Sally had feinted and gone around the second demon, grabbing it underneath either shoulder, pulling its arms back and exposing the chest. Spike heard something crack; it might have been a shoulder blade, but the killer in him rather thought it was the sternum.

Sally held the vampire from behind, looking toward the kitchen, expecting to see Oz with a handful of stakes. Instead, she saw another vampire charging toward her. She had been mistaken about who was coming out the door, but it was okay. She recognized Spike, and he was pulling a stake from his coat.

He met her eyes with his yellow gaze. Sally had lifted her upper lip in an unconscious snarl, but her human features remained. She yanked the struggling vampire's arms back further, and Spike drove the stake into its breast. He pulled back sharply so the wood wouldn't continue into Sally, but his momentum pushed them back a few steps. She clasped his forearm for balance, then let go. "More of 'em. I've got the left," she growled, her voice at least two octaves deeper than normal.

Spike gave her the beginnings of a truly horrifying smile, his fangs catching the light, and he sped to the right. "Yes!" he roared, catching sight of another three vampires in the shadows.

Angel, meanwhile, freed himself from Faith and Robin's grasp. He watched Spike go one way, Sally another, and then saw two more demons advancing straight toward him. "What took you so long?" he asked, striding to meet them. Angel tilted his head to the side. He felt his vampire face slide into place and his emotions smooth right out.

"Angel!" The dark-haired vampire heard Oz's voice from behind him, felt movement in the air. He brought his hand up and snatched the stake as it hurtled by his left ear. Not bothering with the vampire in the vanguard, he dusted it with a swift, efficient movement as he walked past. It was the next one in line that interested him. It faltered, then came in a rush, swinging a sword at him.

Spike had already dispatched the three demons hidden in the shadows of the right side of the back yard. He ran the perimeter so he could join Sally on the left, and got a good view of her belting a brown-haired vampire twice with one movement, slamming first her fist, then her elbow into its jaw. He grinned at the street-fighting move. Sally brought the same elbow back into the other side of its face, dropping it to the ground. She went down on top of it, the blade of the butcher knife flashing.

Angel twisted out of the way of the sword twice, then decided that he didn't want to play. He aimed a short, brutal blow at the vampire's wrist, and the weapon fell to the ground. He kicked it aside. Two unfamiliar slayers were suddenly there, grabbing it by either arm, and Angel brought the stake down towards its chest. He stopped with less than a centimeter to spare. He smiled as the vampire flinched, and made his own face go back to human.

"How many?" Sally asked Spike, her voice still unnaturally deep.

"The two over by the grill. I got three. Angel is getting his second."

"I miscounted," she said, her voice suddenly much higher. He heard the receding footfalls, turned on his heel, and pelted after the fleeing demon. Sally pushed off from the ground and was close behind.

Angel gave the vampire a nasty smile as it twisted in the Slayers' grasp. "You know," he said, lowering the stake, "I'm wondering why you came here."

"It is known that you are friends," the demon spat the word, "with the humans who dwell here."

"That's not what I'm wondering. You come here all the way from L.A., bringing only a handful of minions, walk into Slayer Central, and pick a fight. With me." He looked at the ground. "What could Wolfram and Hart possibly have paid you to do something so monumentally stupid?" he mused, looking back up at the captive.

"The Gem of Amara," the vampire replied. "All I have to do to be a god is kill you."

Angel gave a snort of laughter. "The Gem of Amara," he repeated. He gave the vampire an even nastier grin. "Did you see that blond vampire who just ran through half of your gang? He did his homework, worked his ass off, ate his Wheaties, and actually found the Gem of Amara." Angel twirled the stake in his hand. "You see that fine-looking Slayer behind me with her arms crossed?"

Buffy, who had charged out of the kitchen door on Oz's heels, had to smile. He knew her so well. She had taken a stake from the slayer who was helping Oz arm everyone, then crossed her arms again to watch.

"She took it away from him. Then, she sent it to me. She gave me the Gem of Amara, and do you know what I did with it?" He leaned very close to the vampire. "I took it to the beach for the afternoon. It was nice – sun on my face, all the girls in their cute little bathing suits." Angel put the point of the stake on the vampire's breastbone. "And you know what I did then? I destroyed it. Smashed the Gem of Amara into little pieces. All gone."

He turned away, lifting the stake from the demon's chest. It sagged a little in the slayers' tight grip. "If Wolfram and Hart had the Gem of Amara, you moron, don't you think they would have given it to you first, as you were coming to try to kill," Angel whirled, driving the stake through its heart, " _me_?"

⸹

"I'll give you one thing," Spike said, punching the vampire he had finally caught, "you can run." He took one himself on the chin. "But it won't bloody do" –uppercut – "you any" – left cross – "good." Spike readied a jab to the body, but the vampire was jerked backwards. Sally had looped them and once again held a demon for him to kill at his leisure. He did so with no showmanship, suddenly tired of it all.

Sally teetered slightly as she found herself holding nothing, then brushed at her arms. She looked at the blond man, then leaned forward and rested her arms on her thighs, breathing hard.

"I know you're not out of breath," Spike said, uncertainly. He looked around; they were on the sidewalk, and he felt exposed.

"I think I'm going to be sick," Sally mumbled, and promptly was.

Spike leapt back a foot or so. "Hey, watch the boots!"

Sally took a couple of breaths, then spat. "Sorry." She stood back up, took in another deep gulp of air, then bent over and retched again.

Spike turned away, letting his human features reemerge. He waited until Sally had finished and cleared her mouth again. "What's with the…" he asked, gesturing at the wet mess on the sidewalk.

She stood up, her arms cradling her stomach, and gave him an incredulous look. "I have never beheaded anything in my life!" she cried. She closed her eyes, flexing her jaw as she had a brief, internal debate. "Well, I have. Chickens, and I had to help slaughter hogs one year, but never anything… human-shaped." Sally gave him a look full of disgust and started to walk back the way they had come. "I've been with you in Cleveland for two days, and I've equaled practically half my lifetime total of vampire kills. Y'all are just… dangerous."

Spike fell in beside her, chuckling. "And you're not?"

She gave him a dirty look and didn't answer.

"You're strong, pet, and you're deadly," he said, "plus you've got good instincts. I'll fight alongside you any day."

"Well, ain't that nice," she said flatly.

"That wasn't the schoolmarm tone," he said, "that one's new. What is it?"

"A defense." She turned away from him, leaving the sidewalk. Spike saw that she was headed for her truck.

"Defense against what?" Sally ignored him and opened the passenger door. She rummaged on the floor and found what she was looking for. Spike came closer, puzzled at what she had in her hand. "I bought two bottles of tequila?"

"Apparently."

"Oh, wait. That one was for you." His tone became accusing. "You didn't drink at all last night, did you?"

She broke the seal and opened the bottle, lifting it to her lips so she could take a swig. Sally swished the liquor around in her mouth, then spat it onto the road with a grimace. She handed the bottle over to him.

Spike shrugged and raised it to his own lips. Sally's hand flashed out and she knocked the bottle just enough so that tequila spilled across his chin and onto his shirt.

"Hey!" He wiped the liquid from his face. "What'd you do that for? Now I smell all like tequila."

"Better than what you smelled like before," she said waspishly.

Spike gave her a narrow look, then glanced past her. Angel was coming toward them.

"Oh, yes, let's protect Angel at all costs," he sneered.

Sally's eyes were cold. "I believe that's exactly what we just did."

"You both all right?" Angel asked.

"Sally threw up," Spike said maliciously. "Nerves."

"Yeah," Angel agreed, wrinkling his nose a little at the lingering smell. He took the bottle of tequila from Spike and helped himself to a large swig. "Are we ready to go?"

Sally looked up at Spike, then at Angel, confused. "Shouldn't we… say our goodbyes?"

"Only if we want to continue to put them in danger by our very presence," Angel said in a tight voice.

"Fine," Sally said. She headed around the bed to the driver's side. "Get in."

"Sally," Angel said. He met her eyes across the back of the truck. "That was some impressive fighting."

She didn't reply, just turned away. But both men heard her clearly as she muttered in an undertone, "Y'all are impressed by the wrong damn things."

⸹

Xander turned off the portable stereo. Buffy stepped forward into the silence. "Ute and Tamika, that was well done," she said, praising the two slayers who had held the vampire captive. "Oz and Bethany, quick work. The rest of you? The only slaying that was done here tonight was by vampires. Vampires, at least nine; slayers, zero. Remember, you are not safe out here in the yard. You are never safe from vampires at night outside of the house where you live. What does that mean? Listen to your surroundings." She nodded at the slayers she had praised. "Ute and Bethany, each of you pick two more slayers and go look for the teams on patrol. Make sure they're all right."

"Do you think there will be stragglers?" Ute asked in a light German accent.

"Did you see Sally and," Buffy's voice tightened, "Spike? There won't be anything left of that raiding party."

The party broke up. Only Oz and the Sunnydale survivors were brave enough to walk over to Buffy. "Giles," she asked, her voice suddenly weary, "can we have a brief meeting in your study?" At his nod of agreement, she turned and walked back in.

"Buf, you all right?" Xander asked, holding the kitchen door for her.

She shook her head. "Later, okay?" When he kept looking at her in concern, she managed a smile. "It's nothing new; something old is just hurting all over again." Xander squeezed her shoulder.

When everyone was in the study and the door closed, Buffy looked around. "First, I wanted to tell you that I talked to Willow. There are only three vampires with souls in the entire world, so we don't have to worry about asking first and staking later."

"I wish Angel could have stayed to hear this," Faith said.

"He was just trying to keep everyone here safe," Robin said, putting his hand on her knee. Faith gave him a wan smile and covered his hand with her own. She was having trouble adjusting to the news that Wesley was dead.

"I'll pass the information along," Giles said, nodding at Faith.

Buffy closed her eyes for a long second. "That's all. Willow sends her love," she added, looking over at Xander and Oz.

Dawn sat down. "Does having three vampires with souls mean anything?"

Everyone looked at Giles, who was sitting behind his desk. "No, nothing that I'm aware of," he said, shrugging. "I've been trying to think of any pattern, but there isn't one." He leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling. "Each was sired in a different century... their, er, ensouling is roughly fifty years apart. That's all I have. There is no lore for this."

"The way I see it," Faith mused, "three warriors for our side. Good on us."

Xander nodded. "Yeah, Sally was scary good."

"No, she's okay," Oz said, unexpectedly. At the looks that settled on him, he shrugged. "Bondage solidarity."

"We'll wait and see about Sally," Giles said, sitting back up in his chair. "Angel and Spike we've known for a long time, and both are committed soldiers."

Robin grinned. "I know I'm on a Hellmouth when you're using words like 'soldiers' without sounding overly dramatic."

Giles sighed. "Yes, it always seems like there's something going on."

Buffy sat up a little straighter. "Is there something…?"

"No, no, not at the present, other than Angel's slow-acting apocalypse," Giles replied quickly. "The slayers who live here… they dream a lot, but they haven't the gift of, um, separating prophesy from the jumble of their subconscious." He took off his glasses and added with a hint of asperity, "One of the young ladies is quite convinced that Toby Maguire always delivers his lines in a monotone as part of a diabolical plot to hypnotize the world through cinema." They all smiled, and Xander laughed out loud.

"Well, if Toby Maguire is the worst we have to worry about," Faith said, standing up, "then I think I'm ready to go to bed." Despite her cheerful words, she looked pale.

Dawn stood up, too. "I negotiated with Tamika and Maria," she said, "and got a room for you two. Just follow me."

Buffy rose from the couch she was sitting on. "Good night, Giles."

Xander pushed his shoulders away from the wall. "Oz, I'll be up in a few minutes."

"You're sharing a room with Oz?" Buffy asked, as they made their way to the front door. Xander nodded, again holding it open for her. By unspoken mutual consent, neither wanted to have their talk in the back yard.

"So!" Xander said with great heartiness as they settled themselves on the front steps, the Slayer to his right.

"So," Buffy said in agreement. Her eyes scanned the shadows, but without the expectation of seeing anyone.

"Why don't you go first?" Xander invited after a few moments of silence.

Buffy shook her head. "Where to begin?" She looked up at the tops of the trees that lined Rosemont. "Okay, how about with the part where you hate my unnatural attraction to vampires?"

"Good place to start," Xander agreed. "No, wait. The proper answer is, none of my business. Bad, bossy Xander, I know. Who is it, though, Angel or Spike?"

"Both," she said in a sad voice. "Angel is… hurting, and there's nothing I can do for him."

Xander looked down at his hands. "Yeah. That was a shocker, learning about Cordelia."

Buffy slid her arm around his waist. "I'm sorry, Xander."

"I'm all right." He shrugged. "Learning your high school sweetheart is dead… it's just another one of those things that makes you take stock of your life. You know, like death, apocalypse, demon attack – we don't get enough of those."

She gave him a squeeze. "Wesley is dead, too, and the other people Angel worked with are either dead or have left. He went to Los Angeles to make a life for himself, and now it's all gone."

"He should never have tried to run the evil law firm," Xander said, "or is it redundant to add the adjective?"

Buffy drew her arm back and cradled her knees. "No, that was a mistake."

"Well, it took us all a little bit of drifting after Sunnydale sank before we got our equilibrium." Xander looked over at her. "Give Angel time. He'll land on his feet."

"I hope so," Buffy said, and she looked at him. "I hope you're right."

"That takes care of Captain Forehead. What about Captain Peroxide?" Xander asked.

She looked away, silent. "I know what you think of him, Xander," she said eventually.

"Buffy, I don't even know what I think of Spike," he replied, throwing his hands up in exasperation. "He's saved my life more than once, and since he got his soul, he's almost never been less than polite to me." Xander sighed. "Yet every single time I see him, I think of him and Anya and that surveillance camera." He turned to face her. "And then I think of you on the bathroom floor at your mom's house."

"I've forgiven him for that." Buffy said.

"I know you have," Xander said, "but I still have a 'Xander smash' subroutine running."

She continued as if she hadn't heard him. "But I can't forget it. I… I thought I could. Why shouldn't I try to have a whole relationship with William?" she asked. "I can't with Angel, but Spike earned his soul."

"For you," Xander said, speaking aloud what Buffy had left unsaid.

"For me," she whispered. "He loves me, and I have to admit that I miss him… physically. But I just can't. I trust him, Xander, completely. But when I'm… with him, I can't stop thinking about that single, horrible…" Her voice trailed away.

"Buffy, he tried to rape you when you were hurt and weak," Xander said. Buffy flashed him an irritated look at his choice of words, thinking of the actions of a much younger, hyena-demon Xander. He plowed on. "It's aversion learning, like never eating White Castles again after that first, special night of vomiting. Has nothing to do with being a Slayer. It's just a human response. "

She nodded, impatient to have her say. "I hurt him tonight. His feelings, I mean." She sighed. "I can't be with Angel that way, and I can't be with William that way, either."

"Buf, you know I think it's for the best."

"Do you know why I kept him with me those last days in Sunnydale, before we knew what the trigger was?"

"No." He gave her a curious look. She'd never brought it up before. "I figured you had your reasons. I mean, you talked me into letting him stay with me while he was siring new vampires… but he never touched me. Figured you might think he was trustworthy around us, at least."

"Most people in the house thought we were sleeping together, but we weren't. Not since before–" She took a breath. "The reason I wanted him with me was because I knew he had a vital role to play in the war. I dreamed it. I knew that I'd have to sacrifice him." Buffy's voice was hard. "And the whole time, he was so tender and supportive and caring and… And I kept him close so I could be sure he would be there, in the right place to…."

"Buffy," Xander interrupted, alarmed by the self-loathing in her voice, "Spike wanted to fight, he understood the odds. He's not the only one who died that day."

She looked down. "I-I never dreamed anything about Anya, Xan. Just about Spike." She sighed. "He wanted to stay. But I feel responsible for him," Buffy said. "What if I drive him…" she trailed off again, not continuing.

"He's a grownup," Xander began. "Well, he's old, anyway, Buffy. He's not your responsibility. No matter why he got his soul, it's up to him what he does with it."

"Do you think I should feel responsible for Angel?"

"What?" Xander gave her a puzzled look. "No. Why would you?"

She shook her head. "I don't know. There's a lot of stuff floating around in here tonight." She rapped her knuckles on her forehead.

"Buffy, after Spike left, while Willow was in England with Giles," Xander began.

Buffy interrupted. "I'm not angling for more sympathy sex, Xander." She looked down. She'd slept with Xander without ever once thinking of the hyena incident. That was the difference, she supposed. The impulse to force her had come from within Spike, not from a spell. Plus, she didn't have to feel guilty about sex with Xander; he was human. Also, plenty of beer had been involved.

"I'm not offering."

Buffy gave him a mock-miffed look. "Kick me while I'm down, why don't you?"

"Just listen, okay? That summer, while my crew was finishing up the high school, you only had yourself and Dawn to worry about. No addicted friends, no friends distracted by wedding plans, no one trying to kill you or drive you crazy. That was when you finally crawled all the way out of the grave.

"You did that on your own, Buffy. I was proud of you. If you hadn't been back to your Buffy self, I would never have slept with you that night."

She smiled, not looking at him. "I know, Xan." She had confronted him about how much he was drinking, and he had confronted her about not grieving for Tara and Willow. They had cried in each other's arms, then they had kissed. And then things had gotten better. Buffy did look over at him then. "That was the most wholesome night I've ever spent with anyone, and I mean that in the best possible way."

"It was wholesome," he agreed, "healing, for you and me both. It was my fault, but I missed Anya so much…" He shook his head slightly. "I digress. The reason I mentioned that summer is because you're worried about being responsible for those guys. You aren't; they are, responsible for themselves, I mean. Time will pass, and they'll have their own healing."

"Xander, it's not just my rather pathetic love life," Buffy said. "They are both soldiers in my army. Angel will figure it out; he did it on his own before. But what if I drive Spike away?"

"Buffy," Xander said, sounding exasperated. He stopped himself. "Okay, Angel, right? Do you think he stays up at night worrying about whether his special project, Faith, will stay on the straight and narrow?"

"Angel?" Buffy asked, raising an eyebrow. "Yeah," she replied slowly.

"Okay, but do you think he stays up every night?"

"No. Or, if he does, I'm sure he's brooding about other things, too."

"Exactly. He did as much as he could for Faith, showed her the way. Where she goes from there is up to her. Now, Spike's off to a good start. He did sacrifice himself to save life as we know it here on planet earth. It isn't his fault that he didn't stay dead," Xander said, smiling down at her, "or so I keep telling myself. What he does from now on is up to him."

"So you think I'm Spike's… guru?"

"Guru, mentor… sponsor may be a better word, like in Bloodsuckers Anonymous."

Buffy grinned at that and leaned over to bump his shoulder. "When did you get so wise?"

"I'm just like Odin," Xander assured her. "Gave up the eye, got the wisdom." He looked down at her. "Hey! Oh, hey, Buffy, don't."

She covered her face for a moment, hiding her tears from him. "Xander, you know what really scares me?" Buffy put her forehead on her knees, not looking at him. "I've caused so much pain, been mean and hurtful, gotten people killed." She sniffled and managed to finish in a choked voice. "How could they ever let me back into heaven?" Buffy raised her face to look at him, her cheeks wet. "And after what I cost you…?"

Xander put his arms around her, sheltered her against his broad chest. "Shh, Buf. When you die, a long, long time from now, they'll give you a parade and escort you right back. Remember what the First Slayer said? Death is your gift. All Slayers go to heaven. That's my belief, and I'm sticking with it. God knows you deserve it."

"I don't think I deserve it," she whispered.

"You're the finest person I know," Xander said. "And if you keep worrying about it, I'm sending you back into the desert with Giles for another round of the hokey-pokey."

Buffy gave a shaky laugh. "What would I do without you, Xander? You and Wil?"

"I've seen what you do without us, and it ain't pretty." She laughed again, wiping the tears from her face. "I have wondered about that, you know. You have your destiny as a Slayer, but the fact that of all the people you could have hooked up with at good old Sunnydale High School, you found me and Willow… I have to wonder." He felt her nod against his chest.

"I would've died that first year in Sunnydale if it hadn't been for you." She looked up at him, simple love so open in her eyes that Xander shied away.

"Again I say to you," he said, shaking a finger in her face, "no sympathy sex."

Buffy pulled away from him, running her fingertips beneath her eyes. "It's because I look like a raccoon, isn't it?"

"No," he said slowly, "actually, it's because I'm seeing someone."

"Good for you, Xander," Buffy said. Then she added, because she had to, "She isn't…?"

"No, she isn't a demon," Xander answered patiently. "Her name is Michelle, she has a little girl named Whitney, and I think, no, I pray that it will turn into something serious. It's beginning to look that way." His mouth firmed into a sad line. "She's nothing like Anya. Very selfless."

Buffy was smiling now. "That's great, Xander. It really is."

He tilted his head and exhaled. "I'm glad you think so. The thing is, Buf, if Michelle and I get married…"

"You want out of the army," Buffy said in a quiet voice.

Xander nodded. "Yeah, that's pretty much what I came here to talk to you about. It wouldn't be fair to Michelle and Whitney for me to risk my life as a family man in the same way I did as an eligible bachelor. I think reserve status would be a good place for me." When Buffy didn't say anything, he went on. "There's a bond between the three of us, me, you, and Wil, that nothing can break and no one else can ever understand."

"The four of us," Buffy said.

Xander nodded. "That's right. Giles, too. I just wanted to say that nothing, not marriages, not time, not crazy vampire boyfriends, nothing, will ever change that." He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his thighs. "I know that there will be times when it would be nice to have me around and that there will be times when you need me, and I know that you'll be able to tell the difference between those. When you need me, Buf, I'll be there for you, because I know I'll be fighting the good fight for everyone, including my family." He held his hand out and waited until Buffy put hers in it. Then he covered her hand, clasping it between both of his. "I'm so glad to know you, Buffy. I know the shelf life of a Slayer, and it breaks my heart to think that me, you, and Wil won't end up in the same retirement community, playing shuffleboard together. Every moment I spend with you is a privilege." He brought her hand to his mouth, didn't kiss it. "I don't have demon strength or fancy kung fu moves, but I believe that I have something to offer."

"You've proven that," Buffy said fiercely.

"Yes," he agreed, "so don't hesitate to call on me."

"When I need you," Buffy said. When he nodded, she gave him a serious look. "Xander, when the Slayer needs you?"

He nodded again. "When there's need, I'll be there."

She took her hand from his and put it behind his neck. She pulled his face to hers, and they shared an uncomplicated kiss.

"Well, I guess that's my cue to go to bed and wrestle with Oz," Xander said. He stopped and put his hands on his knees. "Will I ever outgrow the ability to say just the wrong thing?" he asked the universe in general. "It's a big, queen-sized bed, with plenty of room for two heterosexual dudes, but he is a serious covers hog."

Buffy patted his knee. "You gotta watch those wiry little guys."

"You okay, Buf?"

She nodded. "Thanks, Xander. I feel better. You're right. I can't save everyone."

Xander smiled wryly. "No, actually, you can save everyone, and you have, just not all the time. Sometimes they have to save themselves."

"Now all I have to do is figure out when it's up to me and when it's up to them."

"Well, you gotta figure anything between the Order of Taraka and an apocalypse falls into your territory," Xander said, finally standing up. "Bad fashion choices, pedestrian crosswalks, and figuring out that not everyone ends up with Buffy ever after… I kind of figure that's up to the individual in question."

She looked up and met his eye, seeing the self-awareness in it. Buffy took his hand and let him pull her to her feet. She tucked her arm in his, and they went back into the house, closing the door behind them.

⸹

Next Chapter: Sally invites Spike and Angel into the safety of her home. Angel gives it a week.

[Author's Note: It takes a Turok-Han to change a disguised avenging angel into a vampire.]


	4. Settling

**Settling**

⸹

North Carolina

May 2004

⸹

"Hey." Someone shook Angel's shoulder. "Wake up." He opened his eyes, looking blearily over at Sally in the driver's seat. She had twisted around and was now shaking Spike's knee, the easiest part to reach as he sprawled in the back. "Wake up," she repeated.

Angel glanced out of the windshield. Darkness was beginning to shift into soft gray. He sat up straighter. "Where are we?"

"Six really winding miles from home. C'mon, I want you both upright and watching the road. No motion sickness in my new truck, please." She pulled back onto the pavement. The pickup rolled smoothly through patches of fog. They saw the headlights of only two oncoming vehicles as they climbed steadily upward, curving around the foothills. Trees rose high on one side; beyond the guardrail on the other side was a steep drop.

Ten minutes later, Sally pulled onto an unpaved road blocked by a farm gate. Five-strand barbed wire fencing stretched into the distance on either side, encircling hayfields. There was a faded 'No Trespassing' sign affixed to a nearby tree. She got out of the truck, unlocked the gate and, pushing off with her foot, rode the gate as it swung inward.

"Pull the truck in," she called, motioning, and Angel scooted across the bench seat and behind the wheel. After the truck pulled through, Sally locked the gate back into place and reclaimed the driver's seat. The gravel driveway was long, running uphill past the hayfields and through a stand of trees, past more fields and a denser wood. A whitetail deer dashed through the path of the headlights, causing Sally to brake sharply.

"Sorry about that," she murmured. The truck went around one more bend and a white, one-story farmhouse came into view through the gloom, surrounded by several low outbuildings and a much larger barn. Sally drove to the front of one shed and again gave up the driver's seat to unlock doors. Angel pulled the truck into the shed and parked.

Spike and Angel got out, stretching and looking around. "Welcome to my home," Sally said, stepping up onto the rear tire so she could retrieve her cot from the truck bed. She gestured around at the structure. "This is where we used to cure tobacco. You can still smell it, even though it's been years since we had an allotment."

She led the way out of the shed and toward the house, walking backwards so she could face them and point to the other buildings. "Over there's where I keep the other cars – well, I left one in Knoxville when I picked up that last contract, so there's just one inside; y'all are welcome to borrow it or the truck. Over here's the barn. Let's go around back; once the sun clears that ridge, the front of the house gets light most of the day. Oh, and watch your step; there might be little patties on the ground."

Spike and Angel exchanged bemused glances. A few seconds later, two brown, horned heads popped around the side of the barn, followed by several little white ones. A small herd of goats trotted toward them in the gloom. Sally sat the cot on its side and squatted down. "Kili! Fili! Dori, Nori, Ori, Oin-sir, and Gloin-sir!" She held her hands out to them, and the goats surrounded her, pushing to be petted. "Where's Gimli?" A slightly smaller goat pelted around the barn and sprang onto her knees. Sally teetered for a moment, then fell over. The runty goat hopped nimbly away and bleated.

"Nice to see you, too, Gimli," Sally said dryly. She waved the goats away and stood up, brushing at the seat of her jeans. "You guys go on to the back porch; I'll be right there." She headed to the back of the barn, the goats trotting at her heels.

Spike shrugged and hefted the cot, and the two men walked toward the house. To their left, they could see Sally tossing scoops of feed into a trough. She finished with her little herd, then joined them at a set of steps that led to a screened-in back porch.

"You named your goats after Tolkien's dwarves?" Spike asked, amused.

"You have goats?" Angel asked.

Sally gave them a warning look as she searched for the key. "They keep the grass down."

"But… you have goats?" Angel asked again.

"Angel prefers sheep," Spike said, grinning as he took the easy opening. Angel shot him an annoyed look as they went inside. The walkway through the screened porch was crowded by white wicker furniture with plump pillows, and they shuffled past. "Thought all that talk about getting your goat was metaphorical, pet."

Sally ignored him as she unlocked the back door, and they moved into her large kitchen. She turned on the lights. The inside of the house wasn't as rustic as the outside. The kitchen had a sleek ceramic stovetop, Angel saw, as Sally led them on the tour, turning on lights as she went. "Here's the half-bath," she said, pointing as they went down a hallway, "and the living room – it used to be a dining room – my bedroom, the bathroom, and," she continued, opening two doors on opposite sides of the hall, "two spare bedrooms, which y'all can sort out. In here is the front parlor. I just use it for storage, since it gets so much sunlight."

She took the cot from Spike, and he peered into the room after she brushed past him. He saw a piano, bookshelves, neat stacks of boxes, a hospital bed, and a wheelchair. He wondered just how advanced her husband's Alzheimer's had been. Sally closed the door behind her and turned around. "And that's the grand tour." She shrugged. "Not much, but it's home."

"It's nice," Spike said, injecting sincerity into his voice.

"Thanks. Um," Sally continued, looking up at the ceiling in thought. "I don't usually use the air conditioning – I sort of like being almost body temperature. If the heat really bothers you guys, though, I can turn it on. Also, if you'll bring your laundry to the kitchen, I'll get started on that."

Angel shook his head. "We're not going to let you wash our clothes."

She scoffed. "If we pool our dirty laundry, I might actually have enough to do it properly, instead of stuffing the whole mixed lot of colors and whites into a cold water cycle and hoping that nothing bleeds."

"She's got a point, mate," Spike agreed. "When you're single, you either have to put off laundry for weeks until you have a mountain of it–"

Angel turned his head and gave Spike a look.

"What?" Spike asked.

"Fine, Sally. This time." Angel turned and went into the bedroom on the same side of the hall as the bathroom. He looked around, noting the simple furnishings and the shade pulled low over the window, and then dropped the plastic shopping bag with his belongings on the floor. "Is there anything we can do to help?"

She smiled and shook her head. "Are you kidding? I'm a Southern woman with guests; I'm in my element." Sally brushed past Spike and went into the remaining room. "Let me get your bed plugged in."

Spike stared across the hall at Angel, pursing his lips. Finally deciding that he couldn't not ask, he walked into his bedroom a couple of steps. "Plugged in…?"

She was crouched on her knees by the bed, feeling for a cord. "Yeah, you got the waterbed. I'll get the heating element turned on. It's really nice for those of us who are metabolically-challenged." She found the cord and sat up on her haunches. "Unfortunately, I tend to poke holes in it while I sleep, so we put it in here. There!" she said, plugging it into a socket. "In a few hours, it'll be nice and toasty." She stood up. "If you don't like the heat during the summer, just unplug it."

"Right."

Sally rose to her feet. "I guess I'll go start breakfast." She walked by him, and he heard her footsteps retreat toward the kitchen. Spike took a couple of steps himself and peered out of his door, again meeting Angel's eyes across the hallway. The big vampire shrugged helplessly.

Although she had driven all night while they slept, being back in her own home seemed to energize Sally. Angel heard her humming as she unpacked her gym bag in her own room. He took his laundry to the kitchen, spotting a washer and dryer at the far end. His hostess came back into the room and smiled at him, taking the wad of clothes from his hands. He saw three quart-sized jars of blood on the kitchen table and sat down, realizing he was hungry.

"I've got a pan of water heating on the stove," she told him as she passed by on some errand. "That'll warm those jars right up, and I think blood's tastier if it isn't microwaved. If there's anything special you'd like to eat, just write it on the list on the refrigerator door." She came back by him holding a portable phone, thumbing a number into the keypad.

Sally put the phone to her ear and listened for a while to a recording. She began to sort the laundry as she waited. "Hey, Ralph, it's Sally Tolliver at HemiGlobal Research. I've got some good news; I hope it's good news for you, too. Give me a call when you get in." She turned to take the phone back to its cradle and found Angel standing directly behind her.

"Who did you call?" His voice was silky.

Her eyebrows drew together. "Ralph Dugger over at the meat packing plant, 'cause fresh is much better than old and frozen." She walked around him, oblivious to the menacing vibe he was projecting. "I incorporated as a medical research company that's trying to invent an artificial blood." She put the phone down and turned back to him. "I get deliveries of fresh, clean blood for 'research purposes' and no awkward questions."

He blinked. "Oh. That's clever."

She nodded. "Yeah. Hey, Spike. Got those clothes?" She assumed he had overheard; she knew she could hear everything said inside the small house. The blond man came into the kitchen with his own small bundle of dirty clothes. Sally took those, too, and resumed the sorting. "Ralph is the manager of a local company that makes sausage and bacon. They slaughter cows for people in the area, too. The company hires folks from around here. It's not like a lot of other meat packing places, where they use a lot of powerless immigrant workers and have really bad labor practices." She frowned at the three loads of laundry that she had sorted, her voice slowing. "I mean, the work is still brutal, but…" She glanced over at them. "Where's the underwear?"

Neither man replied.

"All righty," Sally said, bemused. "I'll get the sheets and round out this load of whites."

A few seconds after Sally walked past him, Spike snatched up a piece of her underwear. "This is not a bra," he said, smirking, waving the wide-strapped affair at Angel, "this is a brassiere." Angel hid a smile as Sally returned with an armload of sheets from her cot.

Spike held out the item so she could see it. "Sally, where can you even buy something like this these days?"

Her lips parted in consternation, and she snatched it out of his hand. "My underwear is none of your business, thank you very much," she snapped, her cheeks going red. "This, coming from a man who doesn't even own underwear," she added in an undertone.

"Haven't seen anything like that in years, when I've been shoppin' for women's underwear," Spike said. Both Sally and Angel turned to look at him. "As gifts!" he added quickly.

"Right." Angel gave him a pat on the shoulder as he returned to his seat at the table.

Spike spared a sneer for him, then scooped up another full-coverage bra from the small pile of whites. "Sally, I mean… honestly."

She snatched that one from his grasp, too. "Just because I don't get older doesn't mean I don't live on planet Earth and under the influence of gravity," she said. "I don't want to risk having things sagging down to my knees." Sally tossed a sour look over her shoulder as she stuffed the whites into the washing machine. "You try wrangling these puppies every day, year in and year out."

"Is that an invit–?"

"Don't," Angel said very loudly from the table, then continued in a more normal tone, "say another word. You're being rude."

Spike contented himself with a cheerful leer. "Sally can take it," he said, shading his meaning.

She stood on tiptoe to glare at him. "I can dish it out, too," she warned. She left him grinning by the washer and went to the stove, removing a shallow pan of steaming water from the burner. Picking up the three containers of frozen blood, she put them in the hot water.

"I just like making her blush," Spike said to Angel as he sprawled into a kitchen chair. "You don't see that much these days. It's all… maidenly."

"Don't worry about it," Sally said dryly, addressing Angel. "You told me he was like this. Can't say I wasn't warned."

"Warned you about me, did he?" Spike drawled, giving Angel a cool look.

"Mm-hmm," Sally said, propping herself against the stove and folding her arms, "but, really? Your charm defies description."

"Or detection," Angel supplied.

Spike opened his mouth, but the telephone rang and he let the words die. As Sally went to get it, Angel picked up a pepper mill to keep his hands busy and said, "Saved by the proverbial bell." The two of them listened openly to Sally talk.

"Sally Tolliver speaking… Hello, Ralph. Thank you for getting back to me so quickly." She strode across the kitchen. "Hang on just a moment, let me turn off this autoclave," she said, lifting the washing machine lid. "Yeah, it does sort of sound like a washer, doesn't it?" She rolled her eyes at the two men at the table. "Well, the good news is that I got a National Institutes of Health grant, a large one. We'll have more capacity, and I'll need more blood, say quadruple as much as you've been delivering. Will y'all be able to supply it?" She listened for a few moments, then went back to the telephone base. "Ralph, do you mind if I put you on speaker? I need my hands free. Thanks."

Ralph's amiable voice was amplified into the kitchen. "Long as you don't mind more hogs' blood than beef, we'll do you up right."

"No, either is fine. As long as it's clean and labeled, it doesn't matter. Blood is blood."

"Well, congratulations again on the grant. Y'all have been good customers for us, and it means one less thing going to waste."

"Thanks, Ralph. How's your wife doin'?"

"She's fine, thank you for asking. She's mentioned you a couple of times since she met you at your grandpa's visitation. Didn't think you'd be so young."

"Well, you tell her hi from me."

"I'll do that. You just fax a standing order to me with your signature, and we can begin sending the larger order, let's see, on Wednesday."

"Sounds good, Ralph. I appreciate it. Y'all have taken real good care of us here, too."

"No problem. Take care now."

"You, too. Bye."

Sally disconnected, and went back to the stove, lifting one of the jars from the hot water and sloshing it around. She turned back to her company. "And that's how you conduct business in the South."

"Your grandfather's visitation?" Angel asked quietly.

Sally met his eyes. "Henry's wake, I guess you'd call it. Visitation is usually the night before the funeral here in the South, a gathering of family and friends. I couldn't go to Henry's funeral, but at least I could go the night before for the visitation. I've passed myself off as my own daughter, now as my granddaughter." She averted her eyes, but not before Angel saw the grief in them.

"I wonder if they ever do manage to perfect artificial blood," Spike mused, changing the subject, "if it will do us any good? Or would it be like that fake fat stuff and just go unused?"

Sally looked up, diverted. "I don't know, but I've always wondered about this: does it matter what a person's blood type or Rh factor is? I mean, you guys are normal vampires. Do you look for people who are AB negative, like those snooty wine experts who are always looking for grapes from a particular region?"

"Blood is blood," said Angel, lifting a shoulder and echoing her words. He watched the steam rise from the pan. "Well, human blood is best, keeps us healthiest. I can tell Spike hasn't been feeding on human blood."

"What, my coat isn't shiny and my nose isn't wet?"

Angel shrugged. "Animal blood won't sustain us at a hundred percent, but it'll do." He thought of the months of drinking bags of human blood after he came to Sunnydale. If he had hunted and fed, it might have taken a couple of weeks. On stale blood, it had taken a long time to get back to fighting strength – just in time for Angelus to take over.

"I've never had human blood, and I do just fine," Sally said flatly. Then she colored. "I mean, not me, those five, it…."

"I've always preferred the way younger people taste," Spike said, breaking the awkward silence. "Less cholesterol and the like in their blood, maybe."

"What about other vampires? Their blood, I mean," Sally asked, curious. "Can you drink that?"

Spike felt Angel's eyes rest on him. "Not recommended," he said shortly.

"Why not?"

Angel broke through Spike's impatient sigh. "Beyond a mouthful, the price of drinking from your sire is that you submit all over again, mind and body." He didn't elaborate on why vampires might want to taste each other. "Sometimes vampires not in a family will take just a sip of each other's blood to establish a bloodlink, a mental connection, to show their dealings are aboveboard."

"Bloodlink? Like telepathy?" Sally asked. At Angel's nod, she tilted her head. "How long does it last?" Angel met Spike's eyes for a fleeting, uncomfortable second.

"For bloody ever," Spike replied, "so don't do it. You can learn mental defenses against it, but you're always vulnerable. Willow was able to get into my head easier than anyone else's, back when…" He trailed off, not wanting to follow that memory to its bitter conclusion. "At any rate, not worth the price, no matter how 'tasty.'"

"You two?" Sally asked quietly.

Angel nodded shortly. "When Spike died for a while, it broke the link. One other for me, my sire. The link broke when I killed her."

Spike was staring at the tabletop. "One other for me, too. We were on different bloody continents, but I knew when she died." He missed the puzzled look Angel darted at him.

"Wolfram and Hart served a gourmet blood blend," the dark-haired man said slowly, still fidgeting with the pepper mill and thinking that it was probably a good idea to get off the subject of vampire blood, "a mix from different species, like otters."

"Aren't otters endangered?" Sally asked after a short silence.

Seeing the look of consternation on Angel's face, Spike turned to Sally. "Thank you, Mrs. Tolliver." He gestured at the dark-haired man. "You've given him something else to brood about."

"Sorry," Sally said contritely. "I'm sure that it must be harbor seals or something like that I'm thinking of."

"I wouldn't put it past them," Angel said, staring at the pepper mill.

"They were the ones who sent those vampires to find you at Mr. Giles' house, weren't they?" Sally asked. She opened a cabinet and brought three mugs to the table.

Angel nodded. "No doubt. I'm worried about Charles."

"Charlie can handle himself," Spike said. He opened one of the jars and began pouring blood into the cups.

"I know," Angel agreed with a sigh, "and so can we, but that didn't keep them from trying."

Sally started to sit down, but stopped halfway into her chair and rose again. "Crud. Forgot the washer," she said, going to close the lid. As she came back, she caught Angel's eye and gave him a wicked grin. She nodded at Spike's back and winked, her face smoothing out as she slid back into her seat.

Angel took a sip from the cup Spike pushed toward him and settled his elbows on the table, getting comfortable. He wasn't sure what she had in mind, but he figured that if the blond man was about to get a broadside, he was glad to have a front row seat.

"So, Spike," she said, scooting a little closer to the table. She picked up her cup and nodded her thanks to him.

He nodded back, but his eyes narrowed as he noticed her changed attitude. "Yeah?"

"You've been pretty bold and, uh, cocksure in offering me your… help. I have to wonder.…"

Spike glanced over at Angel, who hid most of his face behind the mug and lowered his eyes. "Yeah?" he said again, more slowly.

Sally poured honey into voice. "The way you talk…" She lifted her cup to take a sip, then paused, lowering it. "Are you supposed to be famous lover, like Don Juan or… Warren Beatty?"

His eyes narrowed as he tried to gauge her intent. They were fencing, and she was feeling him out, looking for an opening. There _was_ something there, not the mesmer, but she was drawing him in. Spike gave her a killer smile. "Not the same circles as Warren Beatty," he said, sensing a trap, "but I haven't had… any… complaints." He leaned toward her, the cup cradled in his hands sliding close to hers. "I could keep _you_ satisfied, pet. Just say the word." His voice was a low purr, satisfied that she wasn't flirting with Peaches.

Sally's eyes flashed mischievously; this was what she had been waiting for. She leaned forward in her chair, smiling and meeting Spike's eyes, her own voice fairly oozing with sticky Southern heat. "I'm sure you could. I've been doing it myself for years." A feline smile. "It don't take _much_." She settled back against the chair.

Angel tried valiantly, but the stunned look on Spike's face, caught between the sex in her voice, the insult in her words, and the visual image she had planted in his mind, was too much. He tried to swallow, choking, but sent a spray of blood across the table and onto the wall. Snorting with laughter, he sat his mug back onto the table and wiped at his mouth. Spike, looking grateful for the distraction, gave him a disgusted look.

"Eww. You're cleaning that up," Sally said, leaving them at the table as she went for paper towels and a spray bottle of cleaner.

Still laughing, Angel nodded his agreement. He wiped tears from both eyes, then held his right side as the belly laugh eased into chuckles. He took the paper towels that Sally put into his hand, still looking at Spike. "Priceless," he gasped. "You may have met your match."

Sally propped her hip against the table and watched him, smiling, then turned to Spike. "Told you I could dish it out," she said.

He didn't turn his head, but brought his gaze up to hers. "You did warn me," he said evenly, his eyes promising retribution.

She winked at him, a quick sweep of eyelashes on the side that Angel couldn't see, and he understood in a flash what her little performance had been about. He discarded the half-dozen comebacks that he had been sorting through and stood from the table, picking up his mug. "If I stay, I believe I will lose my reputation as a gentleman," he said with dignity and, ignoring Angel's renewed laughter, made his retreat to the living room.

Angel joined him a few minutes later. They could hear the sounds of Sally washing the quart jars, then of her puttering with the laundry. Spike was kneeling in front of a big cabinet, looking at the Tolliver collection of music.

"Find anything?" Angel asked.

"How come you're not in there with your new best friend?" Spike asked, throwing a trace of sulk into his voice.

"You know what they say about old friends," Angel said off-handedly.

"They know where the bodies are buried?" Spike asked.

"Something like that," Angel affirmed, sitting on the arm of the couch. He glanced at the single photograph hanging on the wall, a large oval of what must be Sally's wedding portrait. It was black-and-white, with Sally looking about twelve and clinging to the arm of a tall, skinny man who was staring impatiently at the camera. The couple looked determined, and Angel was reminded forcibly of wartime America.

"No," Spike said, answering Angel's earlier question, "I haven't found anything, except the vinyl is mostly country music, the cassettes are an insane mix, and the CDs are…" his voice trailed off as he pulled one from the lowest rack in the cabinet, "fair. No Sex Pistols or Dead Kennedys, but she has the Ramones," he said, waving it at Angel.

"Any Manilow?"

"Er, not so far. Steve Miller close enough?"

Angel left him and wandered to the computer in the corner of the room. He opened the top drawer of the desk it sat on. Inside were a checkbook, a clasp envelope marked 'important papers,' and an old Bible. The checkbook register was unused, and the checks written recently were to pay electricity, phone, and credit card bills. He found Sally and Henry's birth certificates, a yellowed marriage license, and Henry's crisp, new death certificate in the envelope. There were several stultifyingly dull letters and financial documents from a law firm named Ronson, Ferguson, and Ronson in Falls Church, Virginia. Out of curiosity, he opened the Bible to the first pages and read a faded ink notation that Sarah Elizabeth Collier had married Henry Morgan Tolliver on May 22nd, 1942. Angel closed the drawer.

Sally came to the door, wiping her hands on a kitchen towel. "There's a satellite link for the Internet," she offered, seeing him standing by the computer, "and for the TV, too."

"Fancy," Angel said.

"North Carolina," she disagreed, shaking her head. "No cable company's going to run wire out this far." Sally turned her attention to Spike. "There are headphones on top of the stereo," she said, "if you want to listen to some music. Y'all just make yourselves right at home." She went back to the kitchen.

Angel sat down at the computer. "I think I'll surf the L.A. news sites," he said. Before he did, he checked the browser to see where Sally had been last. It was a mundane list of bookstore, music, and news websites.

"Good thinking," Spike agreed absently. He'd found a row of CDs that someone, he assumed Sally, had mixed. He pulled one out at random, looking at the block letters written on it with a marker: "KISS OFF." Curious, he turned on the stereo and popped it in, taking the wireless headphones and holding them near his left ear. The first song was a forgotten gem by Martin Briley titled '(You Ain't Worth) The Salt in My Tears.' The second song was 'Should I Stay or Should I Go' by the Clash. He lowered the earpiece and looked around at the door, impressed, his eyebrows raised. He rifled through the slender jewel cases until he found one labeled "HEARTBROKEN." Switching CDs, he hooked the headphones around his neck, lowered the sound to accommodate his hearing, and sprawled on the couch to listen. Hank Williams' voice came to him in a throb of grief. Spike closed his eyes and let himself think of Buffy for the first time since they'd left Ohio.

At ten-thirty, Sally came back into the living room. "Guys, I'm getting pretty sleepy. I'm going to bed. See you tonight."

This was what Angel had been waiting for. He listened until the clatter of chains had died away, then went to his room to get a couple of cell phones. There was a neatly folded stack of clean clothes on the bed. Staring at them, he felt a prick of guilt. Sally had been nothing but helpful and friendly, and she and Spike were trying so hard to cheer him up. His survival instinct, though, was too strong to accept her at face value. He would continue to be cautious until no doubt remained about her intentions.

Angel took the phones to the kitchen, putting the sounds of Spike's music and the washer and dryer between him and his hostess. He dialed the number that Gunn had given him and waited impatiently. When he got an answering machine, he spoke his own phone number and nothing else, hanging up. Charles was probably being careful, too. A couple of minutes later, the phone rang and displayed an unfamiliar telephone number, and Angel heard Gunn's voice repeating the number back to him.

"Morning. Good to hear your voice."

"Hey, you too, man. How's the big C?"

"It was a little too crowded," Angel said. "Rookie crowds, though. Have you seen any crowds?"

"No, nothing unusual. Like I said, I thought they might be kind of tapped." Gunn's voice grew quieter. "Are you back?"

"No. We're staying with the new person."

"Okay. Cool. Say hi for me."

"How are you feeling?"

"Better than I should. The doc did me right."

"If you need to get in touch, the doc will have the number."

"I've been meaning to thank him, anyway."

"Any word from our colleague with the great voice?"

Gunn sighed. "No. Not really expecting any. Did you place the overseas call?"

"Yeah. They took it… stoically. The news deserved more than that."

"Damn."

"They can't all be from Texas, huh? So, how's the day-to-day thing going?"

"Not bad. Easier than I thought it would be. Listen, man, you be careful."

"You, too." Angel paused, then added. "Miss you."

He heard Charles smile. "Miss you too, you old softie."

Angel disconnected, then bent the phone in his hands until it broke in half. He took out the other phone and called Giles, getting much less subterfuge.

"Mr. Giles! Phone!" Angel pulled the phone away from his ear, wincing, as the slayer who answered his call bellowed for Giles.

"Rupert Giles speaking."

"Good morning, Giles."

"Oh, good morning, Angel."

"How are things there?"

"Much calmer. Well, as calm as one can expect around here."

"Glad to hear it."

"And you? Are you well?"

"We're fine."

"And your suspicions?"

"Still unconfirmed."

"Buffy is standing here, Angel. Would you like to speak with her?"

Angel closed his eyes. "Sure."

"Angel? You left so suddenly. Is everyone all right? I mean, no one was hurt?"

"We're all fine."

"Spike? Is he…?"

"He's fine, Buffy. He's Spike." When she didn't say anything, Angel forced politeness into his voice. "Do you want to talk to him?"

"Do you mind?"

Angel took the phone from his ear and called, more loudly than he had intended, "Spike!" He heard the thump of boots on the floor and met him in the hallway. "Here. Don't stay on too long." He stalked back to the kitchen.

Spike took the phone warily. "Yeah?"

"Spike."

It was his turn to close his eyes. "Buffy."

"You didn't come back."

"No reason to. It wasn't safe."

"No reason…?"

"Nothing that can be changed. Buffy, it's okay."

"No. No it isn't." Her voice sounded miserable.

Spike had never been so aware of Angel's presence. He could practically feel him brooding through the wall, and he chose his words carefully. "It's best to know, innit? No uncertainty." Buffy made no reply, and Spike could see her face, knew exactly how she looked as she mastered herself. "Do you want Angel back on the line?" he asked, his voice even.

"Angel?" It was Giles' voice; she must have handed the phone back to him.

"Rupert," he said with too much warmth to be taken seriously. "I'll get him. Give Buffy my love," he added.

Spike took the cell phone to Angel, who was standing in the kitchen, looking out at the bright summer day beyond the windows. "Giles for you," he said shortly. They didn't look at each other, and the blond man left immediately.

"Yeah, Giles?"

"Angel, would you like for me to have Faith and Robin look in on you as they drive back?"

"No, that's okay. That would be, what, a hundred miles out of their way? My paranoia shouldn't inconvenience them."

"Oh, Angel, Buffy for you again."

"Angel, I wanted to tell you what Willow found." She sounded as if she had a stuffy nose.

"Any more?"

"No. Just you three."

"Good to know."

"She says you should be shielded where you're at. Something about thresholds and old family dwellings."

"Also good to know."

"Angel, would you do something for me?"

"What is it?"

"Take care of Spike."

He paused a long time. "In what way?"

She held her own silence for a moment. "In the time-to-move-on way, I guess." Her voice was desolate. "He'll need someone to…."

Angel stood up straighter. "Spike sends his love, Buffy."

"Give him mine." Her voice tightened, but there was no hesitation.

"I will." Angel's brows drew together, as he remembered that he hadn't seen Buffy while Faith was introducing him to Robin the other night. She never did her best thinking when he was in any proximity to Faith.

"Thank you, Angel." He knew her pain so well; he could see her face crumpling. "I love you."

"You, too," he replied. "Always." He hung up, crushing the telephone in his hand, little pieces of plastic stabbing into his palm.

⸹

Angel woke, sitting up in bed, the sheet falling around his waist. He looked around, unsure for a moment where he was. It came to him in flashes from battle: Connor, Illyria, Gunn, Buffy, Spike, Sally. He was in North Carolina.

He sensed that the sun had just set. Water was running in the bathroom. If Sally was in the shower, it might be a good time to talk to Spike, to see what had happened between him and Buffy. His mouth twisted. It was even possible that the blond might tell him. Angel pulled on his pants and went toward the kitchen, where he heard someone moving around. The door to Sally's room was ajar, and, curious, he glanced in. The furnishings were no fancier than those in his room, but her bedstead was made of heavy iron instead of warm wood, and it was bolted to the floor. Thick iron chains, woven with strips of cloth to silence the clanking, snaked up each corner of the bed from heavy rings that were also attached to the floor. The only other thing of note was a large, triangular gash in the sheetrock across from her bed, at almost head height.

"Hey, Angel," Sally greeted him when he entered the kitchen. "Did you sleep all right?" Her eyes danced across his bare chest, then shied away.

"Fine, yeah," he answered, wishing he'd bothered to pull on a shirt. Sally was wearing her usual modest tank top, but instead of jeans and a flannel shirt, overalls rounded out her outfit. If forced to, he would admit that he had noticed her backside, but without the concealing flannel, the list of noticed things was growing. No wonder Spike was obsessed with her choice of bras. "Sally, there's a hole in your bedroom wall."

"I've been meaning to fix that. Already bought drywall and everything."

"What happened?"

She gave him a grim smile. "I was keeping the key to my cuffs in one of those little portable safes. My inner vampire got angry and threw it across the room into the wall in March. It took me eighteen hours of tying sheets and the elastic from my pan– um, underwear into a lasso before I could pull it free."

Angel knew what it was like to be imprisoned and immortal, with no expectation of rescue. "No wonder you were trying to get in touch with Angel Investigations."

"Yeah," she agreed fervently. "Well, make yourself at home. I'm heading out to the barn, if you need me," she said, once again rather obviously avoiding looking at his naked torso.

"Thanks," he replied, forcing a smile. Angel watched her go out the back door and blew out a tense breath. Just in case she came back before Spike finished showering, he went to his room and donned a shirt. Vampires living in platonic proximity. It was a new concept.

The blond man, not having had an awkward moment, strolled into the kitchen a few minutes later clad only in black jeans, his hair damp and curling, and went directly to the refrigerator. "Angel," he acknowledged, not looking around. He selected a jar of blood and went to the microwave to heat it.

"How's the waterbed?" Angel asked.

"All right," he said, shrugging. "It's not one of those full-wave ones."

"Those are fun," Angel said, a slight smile on his lips.

"Do tell?" Spike raised an eyebrow.

"A gentleman never tells."

"So what's stopping you?" The microwave began to beep, and Spike took the jar from the oven. "Want half, mate?"

"Sure."

They sat companionably at the kitchen table as the darkness outside deepened. Twice Angel began to bring up Cleveland, but it was so nice not being in conflict that he held his silence.

"Where'd Sally get to?" Spike asked, tilting his head and listening to the quiet house.

"In the barn."

"Doing her chores, is she?" His lips curled in a sardonic smile.

"Tending the goats," Angel said, and chuckled.

"We really landed on our feet with Sally."

"Maybe."

"Don't tell me that you still suspect she's part of the Great Evil Plot to Get Angel?"

Angel shrugged, then a gleam showed in his eyes. "After this morning, I'm surprised you don't think she's evil."

Spike shrugged himself, uncomfortable. "Most likely had that coming."

"You know, you two don't have to go to all that trouble to cheer me up."

"Well, Buf–"

"Buffy what?" Angel's voice was sharp.

"Buffy asked me to look out for you." His voice was even more uncomfortable.

"Now, that's interesting," Angel mused. "She asked me to look out for you, Spike."

Their eyes met across the table for an instant. Both picked up their mugs and studied the contents.

"She's worried about you being at sixes and sevens, being out of Los Angeles and all," Spike said finally. "You know you're not happy unless you're managing some mischief."

"True," Angel agreed. "I am feeling a bit… useless. Doesn't mean I need babysitting."

Spike took a nonchalant drink from his mug and, without looking up, asked, "Did Buffy say why she wanted you to keep an eye on me?"

"Not really," Angel said. "But it doesn't take a genius to figure out that something happened in Cleveland."

Spike put his cup down and stood from the table. "Well, then, go ahead and figure it out. I'll go to the barn and see if I can catch our sharp-tongued hostess talking into her shoe or her secret decoder ring or something."

Angel stayed where he was as the screen door slammed. Buffy had been covered with Spike's scent when she stood behind Oz, her arms crossed. Despite Sally's tequila strategy, he'd smelled Buffy on Spike, too. Something had begun, but he was positive it hadn't ended the way either of them might have wished. And he had said he wouldn't interfere. Angel took another sip of blood and settled in for a good brood.

⸹

There was a small but growing pile of hay and goat manure outside the barn door. Spike could hear Sally singing snatches of a hymn from inside the lighted building, and could see an occasional clump of waste fly onto the heap.

"'This is my story,'" she sang, "'this is my song.'" She had the clear, confident voice of someone raised to sing sacred music from childhood. An especially wet glop of fresh manure went onto the pile, and Spike smiled.

"I remember when that song was new," he told her, standing on the opposite side of the doorway from the manure. "Hit Parade in the 1870s was nothing but hymns, it seemed. 'Blessed Assurance,' isn't it? Woman wrote it, I remember right."

Sally looked up, shrugging. "Not a clue about the song, just how to sing it. D'ja sleep well?"

"Yeah." His eyes flicked over her, taking in the overalls and the Wellingtons she wore as she mucked out the barn, the play of muscle beneath bare skin as her arms moved. "Go on singing. You've a lovely voice." Embarrassed, she looked down at the ground and jabbed the pitchfork at a few random places, and Spike grinned. "Not sure you'd be able to manage that maidenly blush again after this morning." He leaned indolently against the door. "And yet I find you singing hymns."

Sally raked the pitchfork along the dirt floor and, after a second, looked up at him. "Too much?" When he didn't answer, she attacked the fouled hay with renewed vigor. Without meeting his eyes, she apologized. "I'm sorry. I thought I might get you to back off a little and make Angel smile at a single go. I didn't mean to offend you."

"You didn't offend me, pet," Spike said. "You think I need to back off?"

He heard her take a breath, but she didn't say anything until she had finished her chore. Sally looked at him, then stuck the pitchfork into the heap. "Yes, I do. I'd feel much more comfortable if you backed off, even a little, verbally, humor-wise… laundry-wise." She turned and went to a stack of hay bales. "I've never met anyone like you," she said, pulling off her gloves to snap the twine from a bale. She broke the hay into sections. "You are so openly sexual," she began scattering the fresh straw across the dirt, coming closer as she covered the floor. "Everything you say sounds like a double-entendre. I just find you… disconcerting."

He watched her, not frowning, but with a serious expression. "You find me – That whole thing you said in the kitchen wasn't all _Penthouse_ Forum?"

Sally didn't reply until she had gone back to retrieve her gloves, giving her time to think. "I did apologize, Spike," she said, walking to the door and meeting his gaze. "You can insinuate more with one eyebrow than most people can with… I was feeling needled, and I struck back in the same fashion. I won't go there again."

He nodded, looking down. "Fair enough. But we're vampires, Sally. In Cleveland," he said, his words slowing, "when we were finding the motel… I didn't understand that you aren't," a small smile touched his mouth, putting quotes around his next words, "that kind of girl." He turned away from her, propping himself more comfortably against the door and looking out into the darkness. After what happened in Cleveland with Buffy, the thought of sex just made him tired. "I know it now, so I won't… A lot of it, the 'cocksure' stuff, is leftover swagger. Pre-soul stuff, comes out automatically. I don't mean anything by it."

Sally's eyes raked over him, head to bare feet, as he stood framed in the doorway. She turned off the lights, pulled the pitchfork from the pile, and walked past him. "Of course you don't," she said in a neutral voice, shaking her head. Spike gave her a sharp look as she walked away from him. "Pull the doors closed, would you?" she called over her shoulder. "The goats don't need to be in there with this fine weather."

He complied, then followed after her, puzzling over her words. Sally was bent over a faucet at the other end of the barn, rinsing her boots and the pitchfork. "I'm confused," he began, but Sally stood up and speared him with a glare.

"Join the club." Sally stomped away, heading to the tool shed. There she slid off the boots and shoved her feet into a pair of sneakers. She laid the gloves on a shelf and hung the pitchfork on a peg, then closed the door. Without looking at Spike, she went to the outbuilding housing the pickup and turned on the light.

Spike tilted his head and followed her inside. She was holding a shallow pan and a funnel, apparently getting ready to change the oil in her truck. He watched her stretch for an orange Phram box and pick up a case of motor oil. Before she could disappear under the chassis, he spoke up.

"All right. I give. What does all that mean?"

Sally stared at him open-mouthed for a couple of beats, then closed it with a snap. "Okay, let's try an analogy." She walked away from him and sat down on a swing hanging from an overhead beam. He hadn't noticed it before. It was homemade, a wide plank secured with two sturdy ropes.

"Why is there a swing hung up in here?" he asked, beginning to feel as if everything in the world was off kilter.

"Henry hung it for me," she said impatiently. "I couldn't swing outside."

"You could at night," he pointed out.

Sally closed her eyes. "It was a romantic gesture, Spike, and like most romantic gestures, making sense didn't factor into it. Oddly enough, he didn't want his wife outside – Never mind." Her teeth were gritted, and Spike's eyes crinkled at how he was getting to her. "The analogy, honey, remember? Just watch.

"I had a girlfriend in high school who totally loved this guy, Rick, and she gave us a detailed account of every encounter she had with him. Innocent stuff, I mean: she said this, he said that. They talked all the time, but nothing ever happened between them. Another of my friends pointed out that every time Juanita talked about him, she was sitting like this," Sally continued, demonstrating, "in a chair with her knees firmly pressed together, but her ankles a foot and a half apart. She was sending Rick mixed signals." Sally left the swing, sending it rocking gently in the still air.

Spike gave her a puzzled look and gestured for her to go on.

"Mixed signals!" Sally said with a good deal of exasperation, pulling a length of tarp from beneath a bench. "You're telling me don't do the innuendo thing, that you're sorry about Cleveland, that you don't want to play anymore… and yet you're standing there looking all Chippendales in nothing but a pair of jeans." Her eyes flicked down to where they rode low on his hips. "I _know_ it's nothing but a pair of jeans," she added. "I'm almost eighty years old; my heart can only take so much." Sally tossed the tarp onto the ground and disappeared beneath the pickup.

Spike looked down at his bare chest and feet. When he looked up, his eyebrows were raised. "The sight of my skin bothers you?" His voice was silky.

"You're doing it again," Sally grumbled. Her voice sounded oddly flat from beneath the truck. "Yes, it bothers me. It's been fifty years since I've been around a shirtless man your age… apparent age, you know what I mean. It was weird in the kitchen with Angel a little while ago, too."

"Angel was wearing a shirt," Spike protested.

"Yeah, well, I guess it must have made him uncomfortable, too," she said approvingly.

"Bloody Angel," Spike muttered, in a sudden bad mood as he imagined Sally sliding past the other man's naked chest, smiling up at him. "What about what you're wearing?" he challenged her.

There was a clink of metal from beneath the truck, then a strong smell of used oil. Sally shimmied along the tarp until she was clear of the chassis. She shot him a disbelieving look from around the wheel well. "I'm wearing," she calculated quickly, "at least seven more items of clothing than you." She stood up and brushed at her overalls, then leaned against the truck as she waited for the oil pan to drain. "One of which apparently reminds you of a truss or an iron maiden or… mummy wrappings."

"You counted each of your socks and shoes," he said solemnly. "Don't think that's fair; they should count as pairs. And, anyway, your arms are bare."

Sally gave him an aggravated look and pushed herself off the side panel. She started to say something, then shook her head and walked by him to the front of the truck. She opened the hood, standing on her tiptoes to push it all the way up. Spike came up beside her and set the brace. Sally closed her eyes, and he watched her face as she had an internal debate.

"Thank you," she managed.

"You're welcome," he said in an entirely normal voice. She started around him, but he took her arm. "Look at me, Sally." It took her another moment of inner debate, but she looked up at him. He searched her green eyes in the light of the single bulb high overhead. What she'd said about him scaring the hell out of her finally clicked. "You're attracted to me," he said, a statement. "That's okay. You don't have to do anything about it."

"Have I?"

"No." He frowned. "You haven't."

"Let go of my arm, please?" she asked, although she was more than capable of getting loose.

Spike released her, confused again by the undercurrents in their conversation. "I won't… you know, do anything. And you just treat me like you would any man you were attracted to while you were still married."

"There were none." Sally gave him a hostile look, then disappeared beneath the truck again to fasten the plug back into the empty oil pan.

Spike's lips parted as he pondered this. "You're too honest, Sally."

Her voice again sounded distant. "I'm too old to start lying to myself." She pushed the full pan of used oil ahead of her and set it on the tarp. Sally brought the case of oil to the front of the truck. "You're a guest in my home, Spike. I don't want to make you uncomfortable, but I don't want to be uncomfortable myself." She paused for a moment, holding a quart by the lid, and looked at him. "Do you think it's because we're both vampires?"

He shrugged. "Dunno. You feel anything for Peaches?" When she didn't answer, Spike settled next to her in silence and held the funnel for her as she poured quart after quart of oil into the engine, examining her intently. Sally had a smudge of oil on her cheek and several far more fragrant smudges on the overalls. Her bright hair was pulled back into a simple ponytail, and he could see every faint, remnant freckle and not one trace of makeup on her pale face. She still wasn't trying, he decided, and he did find her interesting.

Sally's expression grew more troubled as she bore his examination, but she kept her silence. Her eyes flicked to him as she left the engine and knelt on the tarp, pouring the old oil into the newly empty containers. Spike continued to watch her practiced, efficient movements as she put her equipment away.

She started the engine and watched the oil pressure gauge. She had been silent for so long that he was a little surprised when she turned off the engine and called, "Close the hood, would you?" Sally came around to where he still stood in front of the truck, her hands stuffed into her overalls pockets. She was still an awkward few feet from him when she stopped. "Thanks for the company," she said, and she sounded sincere.

"You're welcome."

"Are we okay?" she asked, her eyes on the ground between them.

"Yeah," he answered slowly. "Yeah. I think I'll just go… take my own advice." Sally looked up, but Spike had already turned away, walking back to the house.

⸹

"No decoder ring," Spike said shortly, reaching across the kitchen table for his mug. "No shoe phone."

Angel was still sitting at the table, and he raised an eyebrow. "Did you check her watch?"

Spike gave him a cold look. "Listen, mate, if she were Mata Hari, she'd be sleeping with one of us by now." He gestured with his mug. "Hell, with our history, she'd be shagging us both on the barn roof." He drained the cup and set it down with a thump. "She's outside mucking out her barn and changing the soddin' oil in her truck, not plotting your bleedin' demise."

"Well, at least there's someone who isn't."

The blond man picked up his mug and took it to the sink, rinsing it out. He turned around abruptly. "Angel? Do you think…" he hesitated, looking as though he wished he hadn't brought it up, "I'm provocative?"

Angel nodded. "You provoke the hell out of me."

"No," he said, annoyed, "I mean, you know. Provocative."

How often did he get to tease Spike? Angel leaned forward, eyeing him critically. "Nah, I couldn't say. Too close to be objective. You're the last man I slept with, after all." He batted his eyelashes.

"Oh, sod off." Spike walked toward the hallway, pausing at the door. "Look, you want to keep an eye on her, do it yourself. I'm convinced that she's… good." The blond man waved his hand as though the word had a slight smell and strode away.

"Spike, my boy," he mused in a low voice, "I get the sense that you're not having much luck with women these days." Smiling, he went to get his shoes and made no effort to be quiet as he went out the back door.

There were no lights in any of the farm buildings, and Angel frowned. He heard light footfalls moving away to the north and lifted his face, reading the air. Where was Sally heading? Angel went into the shadows and began to follow.

The sound of her footsteps stopped when they were perhaps a quarter mile from the farmhouse. Angel eased closer, taking his time, then froze. He heard wet, tearing sounds, and he sped up, spotting Sally's bright hair as she knelt between some stones, ripping at the ground.

They were tombstones. A second later, he caught the green smell of grasses and the dank of earth, and he leaned against the tree that hid him, closing his eyes. She was pulling weeds from around a tombstone, and he had a good idea whose it was. He felt like an idiot, watching her tend her family cemetery.

"Hey, honey." Sally's voice was soft, and when Angel peeked around the tree, he saw her kneeling next to a fresh grave. "I'm back." Most of the conversation she was having with her dead husband was internal, because the only other thing he heard her say was, "They're like me, Henry, men like me."

Angel stayed in the shadows, waiting until she was done. When she finally did stand up, brushing the knees of her overalls, she surveyed the other graves and uprooted some more weeds. She came toward him and was a few steps away when she paused, turned her head, and found him.

"Angel, what are you doing there?"

"I didn't want to interrupt."

"That was thoughtful," she said in an uncertain tone.

"Also, I was spying on you," he admitted, walking over to join her. "I haven't known you very long, Sally, and you might have noticed that there are people who want me dead-er."

"You thought I was, what? Going to set you up?"

He shrugged. "I don't think so anymore."

"I've never been taken for a covert agent before," she said, sounding flattered. They began walking back toward the house.

After a short silence, Angel sighed. "I should apologize for Spike. I don't know what he did, exactly, but I'm sorry about it."

Sally's brows came together. "He didn't do anything. He's just… Doesn't matter. Spike can apologize for himself, if it's necessary."

"This is just… an odd living arrangement, for vampires. Typical vampires, I mean. Have to admit, it's… uh, on my mind, too."

Her steps slowed as she pondered this. "Are you saying that, if we were typical, our _trois_ would be _ménage_ -ing?"

"Yeah," Angel said, relieved that he didn't have to stumble around it any more. "And Spike and I have been typical, so… instinct is telling us one thing; common sense is telling us another."

She bit her lip. "Oookay." There was less amusement than consternation in her voice.

"The, um, physical contact is important, too. It's really the only thing that, uh, soothes us." How could he explain to her the safety of a family bed when she'd never experienced it? Or when both he and Spike denied themselves that comfort?

"Okay. Sure."

"Does all of this belong to you?" Angel asked, changing the subject and gesturing around.

"There were three farms separating my family and Henry's family property," Sally said, grabbing the new topic with relief, "and we bought those over time. Very good prices, too, mostly because I slaughtered quite a few of the owners." She cleared her throat and started again with less bitterness. "In all, it's a little over two hundred acres. It's not all arable; a lot of the land is too steep. The fields that had been cleared I keep for hay now, let the Scalf brothers mow and bale it for me. It's all… fallow," she finished, shrugging. "I did put out a little garden this spring, just out of habit." She checked his feet for shoes, then asked, "Would you like a tour? A quick one, I mean?"

"Sure." He wasn't just being polite. Something about this land, even with all the trees, strongly reminded him of Ireland. Once in a great while, he realized how much he missed the country.

Sally turned and led him uphill to the west, where she pointed out a long swath of woods and a break in a distant ridge where her childhood home had been. The land was steeper than the hills he had rambled over in Galway, but it had a similar, green feel to it. They went south and started downhill, and Angel began to smell water. They walked to the edge of a small lake, and turned along the bank. A boathouse was hidden from easy view, and he saw a short pontoon boat and a johnboat waiting inside.

"You're welcome to take it out, if you want. The keys to the padlock and the boat are hanging above the counter in the kitchen. I mean the pontoon; Henry's Uncle Jerry went duck hunting in the other boat and managed to shoot the bottom out of it with his shotgun. I don't know why we didn't throw it away years ago. If you head down that way," she said, pointing to the right, "you'll get to the main branch of the French Broad and, if the folks at TVA haven't lowered the water level too much, be able to go a far piece."

Angel stared at her. "The what?"

"The French Broad. Name of the river." When he chuckled, she gave him a quelling look. "Third oldest river on earth."

He swallowed his laughter and looked over the water. "Is this where," Angel began, then grew uncomfortable. "I mean, was this where you were fishing that night?"

She met his eyes in the meager light of moon and stars. "Where we walked down," she said, nodding toward the rise. "It isn't like there's a spot where the grass won't grow or anything," she added, a note of gallows humor in her voice.

"Do you ever get nervous living here, so isolated?"

"No," she said, hiding a smile. "What could possibly happen to me now?" She turned and started back up the bank. "What about you, urban cowboy? You nervous?"

"I've lived in cities too long for me to not be," Angel admitted. "It's so quiet out here. It feels big, open… but not empty."

Sally took him seriously. "It isn't empty. These are the Appalachian Mountains, the oldest range in the world. They've been here so long that time has whittled them down to where they don't count as mountains anymore, not by human reckoning. More history has passed over this ground and not been recorded… there's a memory of magic here, of power. It doesn't feel good or evil to me," she said shrugging.

The dark-haired man nodded. "Yeah, that's it. A memory of power." He stopped and looked up at the trees and ridges. "I've felt this in Ireland, even as a human. A still watchfulness."

"But not malevolent," Sally added. "Something that knows we won't be here long enough for it to even bother with."

Then Angel remembered that this wasn't how civilized people talked; not even demons spoke of a power beyond evil and its opposite. "Just imagination," he said dismissively.

Sally gave him a sidelong look. "Think so?" She didn't expect an answer, and he didn't give her one. She led him to the east until they intersected the driveway, and they started toward the house.

"What's that way?" Angel asked, gesturing to the north.

"Steep terrain. Henry's dad kept bees, and there are still a few hives in use down that way. And there's 'sang."

"'Sang?'"

"Ginseng. I gather it every three to five years. Good money in it."

"That deer that we saw the first morning," Angel mused. "Are there many of them?"

She nodded. "Judging from the tracks they leave when the ground is wet. There are elk in the area, too. The Forest Service is trying to reestablish them."

"No wonder you never left," Angel said. "It really is nice. People in the city would pay to visit here."

"They do," Sally said, amused. "Tourism is a growth industry around here. Every few years I get an offer from some developer or another who wants to turn this land into part of a ski resort." She looked around, contentment in her gaze, and drew in a deep breath of clean air. "I've thought about leaving, getting a smaller place, but I'm invisible man."

"What?" he asked blankly.

"Can't see myself doing it."

Angel cringed at the joke, even though the corners of his mouth twitched upward. He changed the subject. "Do you get a lot of snow in the winter?"

"Yes, but it doesn't last. We've never been snowbound more than two or three days. The ski resorts in the area have to use snow-making machines."

"I bet it's pretty with a heavy snow on all these pine trees."

"It is." Sally slowed, looking over at him. "You know, you're welcome to stay… indefinitely. As long as you feel safe, I mean. You can stay and see the snow. Or come back for it."

"I figured you'd be ready to kick us – or some of us – out by now. _Un_ is safer than _trois_."

"Are you kidding? It's good to have the company." She looked down at the driveway, watching her step. "It's been lonesome the past few months." She snorted. "It's been lonesome the past few years, and even before then." She looked up at him, almost shyly. "I enjoy having you here, both of you. Y'all will probably be running from me in a few days, once I hit my stride with the fussing over and the catering to."

"Sounds terrifying."

"Seriously, Angel, I know you aren't moving in for good or anything, but…" her voice trailed away, and it was a moment before she made another attempt. "When you do leave, come back and visit. Anytime."

"Thanks, Sally. We're not usually welcome, vampires, you know. It means a lot." He reached across the distance between them and took her hand. She squeezed it, and they let go.

⸹

There was rain the next day, a slow, steady soak that took the blossoms off the huge catalpa trees that towered over the front yard, carpeting the grass in white. Spike ventured onto the front porch in the diffuse light, taking in the fragrant air only because he was out of cigarettes again. The back yard smelled of turned earth and growing vegetables from Sally's small garden. His window had a view of a line of rhododendron bushes choked with purple flowers, with magnolia trees beginning to bloom behind them. He was cheered that Angel only had a view of the goats in the barnyard, but even that was backed by an apple orchard, hayfields, pine trees, and distant ridgelines shrouded in fog.

He didn't look up when Angel joined him, standing close in what would have seemed like odd proximity to anyone who couldn't sense where the hidden sunlight would appear if the clouds broke. Spike didn't speak, just watched as more white flowers from the catalpas floated down to the grass.

"It's like…" Angel mused, staring at the intense white against the fresh green, trying to find the right words, "like a soundstage garden from some old Technicolor musical. These colors are too vivid, too pretty to be real. I love the country."

"Yeah, but where's your museums and theatres?" Spike asked.

"When was the last time you visited a museum?" Angel countered.

"Uh, that time I visited your lawyerly penthouse and saved your life by pulling that horseshoe crab thing off your chest."

Angel gave him a disappointed look. "Not much of an insult," he commented.

"Can't think here where it's so quiet."

The dark-haired man sent an almost fond look at the back of Spike's head. "I'd forgotten that you're a city boy, born and bred."

"Born and bred, sired and undead," Spike agreed. He waved at the surrounding nature. "I don't know that I've ever lived anywhere this rural." He had, though, a place equally tranquil. His father's friend Arthur Scott had a house in the country, an estate, really, with ponds where William had learned to swim and miles of lawns groomed by a staff of gardeners. His own family would leave London for a month-long visit each summer, his father and Mr. Scott riding out most days, their wives visiting over needlework, the children of the two families playing together. The Scotts had a son his own age and a daughter a year younger. The son, Peter, had what would now be called a developmental disorder, and the Scotts doted on gentle-natured William, who could be relied upon not to tease Peter.

In truth, he had enjoyed playing with Peter, who had vast armies of toy soldiers and small sailing ships they floated on the ponds. He had taught Peter to fly kites and how to make boats and hats and other oddments from paper. It wasn't until their last two or three visits that he really understood that his friend would always be a child. It had made him sad and angry, and when he confronted his parents over how a loving God could allow such things, his father told him for the first time that life was not fair.

"I hope William and Victoria will take a fancy to one another," Mrs. Scott had confided to his mother one afternoon over tea. William, Peter, and Peter's sister Victoria were nearby, having a naval battle with tin ships on a blue blanket spread on the lawn. He was fourteen on that visit, he remembered, because it had been their last.

"Adults seem to think we're the ones hard of hearing," Victoria said in a low voice, giving him a sidelong look, "not them." He had nodded and given her a shy smile, not wanting to admit the idea had merit, at least to him. Victoria was beginning to be quite pretty.

"If they should marry… Arthur and I won't always be here, and it would be a comfort to know that Peter would be in William's household, where he'd be loved and well looked after."

"You can't force these things, Margaret," his mother replied, "and they are still so very young."

"Oh, I know, Anne, dear," Mrs. Scott agreed quickly. "It's just a fond hope of mine."

"I sank that one!" Peter exclaimed excitedly.

"You did indeed," William agreed. He took the targeted ship in his nimble fingers and upended it with great drama. Peter laughed and clapped, and William turned to share a smile with Victoria. She was staring at him speculatively, one of her braids wrapped over her nose and across her face as she propped herself up on her elbows.

"What?" he asked defensively.

"If we could play like this always, the three of us…" she said, still giving him a speculative look, "I might marry you, but you'd have to promise not to turn into one of those husbands whose only interest is in horses and hounds and politics."

This was far more than he could handle at fourteen. He'd blushed and awkwardly pulled her braid away from her nose and given it a sharp tug. Victoria had kissed him the night before they left, quick and light but on the mouth, and he had dreamed about it for months, sometimes with shame and a pounding heart in his narrow bed, sometimes with his heart soaring as he fashioned some little paper toy for his mother to include in her letters to Mrs. Scott. Victoria and Mr. Scott died the following February in the cholera epidemic. The title and estate changed hands, and Peter and his mother had to move in with some of her family near Edinburgh, destined for a life of genteel poverty. He never saw either of them again, nor anyplace as lovely as the Scott estate.

"C'mon, Spike. You've got to admit, it's beautiful."

"Yeah, well," the blond man hedged, shaken from his reverie. Soddin' soul. The Tolliver farm was not patrolled by a troop of groundskeepers, and nature pushed to the very edges of the small yard, with daisies, clover, Queen Anne's lace, and other pretty weeds trying to creep in. The farm was overgrown and unpolished and nothing like his cherished childhood memories of the country, but it had its own tranquility. Spike glanced over his shoulder at Angel, irritated at the unwelcome thoughts as well as the company. "Not the place for me. You've got to admit, the chances of a decent fight are slim."

"You've got me," Angel said casually. "I'm always up for a fight." Without Wolfram and Hart sapping his will, he wondered if the younger vampire could win a second time.

Spike did turn around at that. "Been there, done that, kicked your arse," he said calmly even as his accent became more pronounced. "Not interested in a crap rematch."

Angel leaned toward him a bit. "Not sure you can do it again? Afraid to try?"

"Can't keep your hands off me, then?" Spike asked, tilting his head lazily to one side, a slight grin touching the corners of his mouth. "It was good for me, too," he added in a low, confidential tone.

"You don't have to try to push my buttons, Spike my boy," Angel replied, taking another step closer to emphasis his height advantage. "You know I'm ready to go. Always have been."

Unintimidated, Spike lifted his chin. "You're the one ready to go, and I'm the one pushing buttons," he mused. "Looks like we really have switched roles."

Something flickered in Angel's eyes, an odd uncertainty. "Is it me," he asked hesitantly, "or is it getting warm?"

He was warm, too, Spike realized, then a smirk took his mouth. "Could be because you're on fire, you nit." He managed to get this out through the pain that was spreading along his own smoldering arm.

"Sun," Angel hissed, backing into the doorway, beating at the flame on the back of his hand.

Spike gritted his teeth and stood his ground as he turned to look at the sunlight streaming down at them through the continued rain. Sure enough, he spotted what he was looking for. Only then did he move out of the light, passing Angel as he walked into the house. "She's even got a soddin' rainbow. Figures." He paused. "Sorry, Peaches. I'm just not in the mood anymore." Blowing a kiss over his shoulder, he moved through the parlor and into the hallway beyond.

Grimacing as he held his burned hand, Angel turned to watch him, seeing the last tendrils of smoke curling away from his arm. Where the hell did all that come from? he wondered. From a hundred years of familiarity and contempt, came the prompt answer. All he'd come outside for was a bit of company, but when Spike hadn't welcomed him, the old competitiveness came to the fore.

The blond man had told him once that it was his fault, not Drusilla's, that he'd become a monster. There was truth in it, and Angel grimaced again, this time at the red memory of a fortnight when Darla had gone to answer a summons from the Master and left him alone with the two youngsters. What he'd done to Drusilla was unforgivable; what he'd done to Spike… the difference was, he hadn't succeeded.

Angelus had destroyed Dru and remade her as he willed, but there was some core part of William that he had never been able to snap, no matter what method he used. He had managed to twist everything around that core, though, had made Spike a brother to him. Even with a soul, Angel found the urge to finally break him remained. Buffy, Dru, the Shanshu – sometimes those were just excuses for that underlying desire.

Angel moved forward cautiously and peered from beneath the roof of the porch at the sky. Sure enough, there was a rainbow. Something in him eased, the part of him that would always be Irish, he supposed. He loved this weather, cool, wet, and green. Maybe a third of the times – well, maybe a fourth – his father had assumed he was out on an extended drunk, he was really just off with his equally shiftless friends, rambling over the hills, walking to another village that was having a market day or festival. He had walked across a lot of America, too, as he grappled with his soul, though never through this region.

He'd change that tonight, maybe stroll down to the water, maybe even swim. The thought of submerging his burned hand in cool lake water was bliss. Then he'd go looking for deer. Maybe they wouldn't mind his company.

⸹

Spike lay on his unmade bed, keeping his burned arm away from the unforgiving vinyl of the waterbed mattress. Living with Angel again… return of the pissing contests. Too many memories, too many thoughts. He shook his head slightly and closed his eyes, desperately wanting a smoke. Stupid soul trying to be helpful, dragging out yet another ragged memory, the one of his six-year-old self again, trying to help him cope with his grandsire by reminding him the old man could be defeated, and he resolutely banished it.

"Angel!" Sally's shocked voice was loud in the still house, making Spike jump and jerking him from his reverie. "What happened to your hand?"

"Sun," Angel grunted. Listening, Spike rolled his eyes. "I was on the porch, trying to see a rainbow." Wanker, the blond man thought resentfully. You were in a pissing contest.

"A rain– " Sally's voice trailed off. "You do remember that you're undead, right? Sunlight on your not-to-do list?" She sounded amused. "Wait in the bathroom. I'll get some aloe for that."

"It'll heal on its own," Angel said shortly.

"Fresh aloe, Angel," their hostess said, ignoring him. "I'll get a stem from the plant in the kitchen. Nothing like it for burns."

Spike heard Angel sigh, and he smirked. Poor ickle baby needs his boo-boo tended. He examined his own arm, which by now was barely pink. One thing about channeling pure light through your soul: it really lowered that pesky sensitivity to ordinary sunbeams.

⸹

Darkness was fully on the farm before Angel managed to get away from the kitchen table. Spike had already finished breakfast and left, and Angel stayed with Sally out of politeness until she was done, getting out of the house only after assuring her that his hand was all right. Now, walking through the small apple orchard as he started to the lake, he tested the air. More rain was on its way, which suited –

"Unnh!" Something hit his jaw, and he staggered almost to the ground.

"What?" Spike asked, emerging from the shadows to loom over him. "Thought you were always ready."

Angel dropped all the way to the ground and swept out his right leg, taking Spike's feet out from under him so they were on eye level again. "Spike my boy, I am always ready."

Before he finished speaking, Spike was back up and bringing an axe kick down toward his face. Angel blocked it with crossed wrists, then caught the other man's ankle and tried to throw him. It didn't work, but Spike's leg made a handy lever for getting to his own feet. Just before he was all the way up, the blond man gave him his weight, using his caught leg as a pivot point and bringing his other leg up in a wheel kick. Angel let go in surprise as the blow caught him across the cheek, and Spike landed neatly to his left.

"Let's go, Grandpa," Spike sneered, and Angel obliged him with a straight punch to the abdomen. They fought in silence for several minutes, the only sound in the orchard the impact of knuckles and elbows and knees. Spike was grinning by then, and a smile came to Angel's lips, too. A light rain began to fall. The dark-haired man moved back a bit, watching warily as he took off his jacket. Spike nodded and shrugged out of his coat, and the two waded in again.

The cutthroat edge was missing, Angel decided as he leapt back from a sudden blade kick a couple of minutes later. They were both holding back, testing the other, almost having fun with it. He led with a side kick that missed and followed up with a backfist that connected solidly with Spike's chin. The blow seemed to have no effect, but he imagined that Spike thought the same about the short, vicious hook that Angel took on his jaw soon afterward. He jabbed at the blond, not expecting to connect, angling toward a nearby apple tree. He ran up the trunk and pushed off, landing a roundhouse kick on the side of Spike's head.

The younger vampire went over backward, but got up immediately, his expression serious. He came at Angel with unnatural speed, his movements crisper now, and drove the dark-haired man back against the same tree with a rapid series of punches that were only partially blocked. Angel spun away from the tree, feeling his shirt catch and tear as he ducked beneath a final blow.

A heavy shower of water fell on them as Spike's jab landed against the bark, shivering the apple tree. Angel felt his shirt flapping uselessly, and he ripped it off. Spike doffed his t-shirt, matching him again. One corner of his mouth went up, and he adopted the straight-spined stance of a nineteenth-century boxer. The two bare-chested men circled each other, silently agreeing to a straight boxing match. After five minutes, they had each managed to land only a handful of blows, but Angel's lip was cut and a bloody smear sat on Spike's right cheek.

"Careful," Angel warned, breaking the silence as he twisted away too late and Spike's knuckles left a line of fire across his chest. "Buffy always liked the way I look without a shirt."

"Yeah?" Spike, giving him no quarter, grazed his chin with a quick jab. "She always liked my more functional parts."

The humor left Angel's face, and he let fly a complicated combination of punches, forcing the blond man to retreat this time. His fist finally met Spike's jaw with satisfying force. "Well, who doesn't, Sweet Willy?" he mocked in a fair approximation of Dru's voice.

Spike touched his jaw delicately. "Guess I'll have to make you choke on your words, then, just like I make you choke on everything else." This time he advanced, Angel dodging and twisting away from his quick blows.

May not be such a good idea to taunt someone who's been training with an Old One for the past few weeks, Angel thought, taking another step back and setting a trap, but what the hell. "I'm pretty sure you li– "

Spike had already stepped back, blood from Angel's mouth on his knuckles, and the trap was never sprung. He watched Angel spit, red shining on the wet ground for a second before the blood and saliva soaked into the dirt. The dark-haired man looked up at him with a flat, killer's gaze, and Spike knew Queensbury rules were out the window.

They flew at each other, going down on the ground, churning up mud. Angel got his footing first, catching Spike in the ribs with a brutal kick. Too late with the block, Spike caught the foot as Angel drew it back, jerking violently and spinning the other man back to the ground. He rose to his knees and connected with three quick body blows before Angel twisted enough to get the angle for another kick.

Breaking free of each other, they got to their feet and began to circle again. Spike's teeth were showing, but not in a grin. His upper lip was curled with unconscious aggression, his fists held loosely midway at his chest. Angel eyed him, his own hands held lower, as if ready to grapple. He blinked a bit, trying to squeeze water from his eyes. "You won one round," he said softly, taunting the boy. "How many did I win before that?"

He spun, striking out with his left leg, following the spinning kick with one from his right leg. Spike stepped into the second kick and landed a perfect uppercut beneath his jaw. Angel staggered, did not go down. Catching sight of the follow-up punch in his peripheral vision, he grabbed Spike's fist and twisted. The blond man went with the motion, turning so that his muddy back was toward Angel. He launched two short backfists at the taller man's nose, and when he had a good idea where it was, he slammed his skull into it. Angel let go to cup his nose for a second, and they drew apart a short distance, eyeing each other.

"I've known I could beat you since I was six," Spike said. "Just had to keep trying till I got it right." He moved faster than Angel could see and landed a solid kick against the taller man's right kidney. "And now, I got it right."

Angel grunted. Six…? "Since Paris?" At the blond man's nod, Angel rolled his eyes. "What? Because you killed that woman who hurt us?" He snorted. "You were so proud of your little trophies, the boy's toy, the bloodstained sword."

Something between a smile and a satisfied sneer settled on Spike's bruised lips. "Didn't kill them, Peaches. Made sure she and her son were safely out of the country the next day. Deserved safe passage after what she did." He bounced a bit on the balls of his feet. "I was proud, though. Proud that I made proper fools of all of you." He ducked Angel's straight punch. "A sword and a child's doll and a bit of blood from a pinprick? You never wondered why I didn't just bring you, oh, their hearts?" He shot out with his own fist, but Angel slid away. "That's right, grandsire. A little bit of a human woman carved herself off a piece of you and your two bints and lived to laugh about it for thirty years."

His demon roared, and Angel launched himself at the grinning man, their chests meeting, straining against each other as their feet fought for purchase in the mud. The only thought in the red haze of his mind was to wipe the smirk off the traitor's face. In his rage, it didn't occur to him to be glad two humans had survived the Scourge of Europe.

Fifteen minutes later, they were still at it, too far gone under the violence to stop. They both knew it wasn't possible to kill the other with their bare hands, but the important thing was to try. Angel and Spike knew each other too intimately to touch in any way that wasn't violent. The rain was heavy now, and they were soaked. They slugged away at each other from nearly stationary positions, like heavyweights after fourteen rounds.

Someone moved between them, too fast to be Spike anymore, but Angel threw a punch anyway. Instead of ducking, Sally grabbed his hand almost casually and bent back one of his fingers. He went down on his knees, trying to avoid the bright, sharp pain, blinking his eyes against the rain as he came out of the strange reverie. She looked at him, at Spike, then back, the concern on her face rapidly fading, replaced by disgust.

"I smelled blood, and then I heard –" Spike took a step forward, and she put out a warding hand. "What on earth are you two…?"

Spike captured her hand and placed it flat against his stomach, his eyes focusing sharply on her. Dark with rain, her red hair was the color of rich blood. She looked soft and yielding, but the small woman had taken Angel to the ground effortlessly. She was strong enough to bear his desire. He no longer had an opponent, and the violence singing through his veins turned, writhing, causing other needs to flare. She smelled… clean and feminine. Inviting.

Sally locked her elbow, keeping the two apart, and turned to speak to Angel. "How long have you two been at this?" She eased up on his finger.

He shrugged wearily. "Since I came outside."

Sally looked incredulous. "That was almost an hour ago."

She turned to Spike, whose gaze was fixed on her chest. Her loose overalls gapped away from her body, and the rain had soaked her white tank top, molding it to her. He could clearly see the outline of her bra, her hard nipples. What had been bloodlust was now simply lust. Spike pushed her palm down his slick skin, past his navel, his eyes closing briefly as her fingertips slid into his jeans.

Then he blinked away raindrops and met her shocked eyes. The heat faded from his own. She snatched her hand away as if his skin burned, and Sally took a step back, letting go of Angel's finger as well. She hunched her shoulders defensively and put her hands in her pockets. Angel, getting slowly to his feet, missed the whole thing.

"Okay," Sally said quietly. "I'll ask again, what on earth were you two doing?"

"Well, training," Spike offered. "What else?"

"Training," she repeated in a neutral tone. Sally looked up at Angel, who gave a short nod. She examined him, noting that one arm hung oddly at his side, that his nose was probably broken. After a moment, she made herself look at Spike. He had a rapidly disappearing shiner, swollen lips, and she had felt broken ribs. He wouldn't meet her eyes, but, then, neither would Angel. Both were covered with minor scrapes and fading bruises. If they had been fighting for almost an hour, there was no telling how much inflicted damage had already healed. She shook her head.

"This is just –" Angel began, but Sally held up a hand, cutting him off.

"Let's get something straight," she said, "no more 'training' sessions. Either of you start it, you know I'll put a stop to it." She looked at the ground instead of them, troubled. "You're both welcome to stay, but this is my home. It's never been a place for fighting, and I don't want it to be now." Sally pushed back her wet hair and glanced at each of them, her voice softening. "Now, y'all get your stuff and come on back to the house, get cleaned up."

They watched her walk away, her footfalls squishing on the wet ground, and their eyes met briefly. Angel turned slowly to follow. Spike came alongside and held out his forgotten jacket in silence. Angel took it, nodding without looking at the other man. Safe or not, this living arrangement is never going to work, he thought. She's right. Between my need for violence and Spike's sex drive, there'll be no peace here. A week, tops, just until I'm sure the heat's let up. Then I'm out of here.

⸹

Next chapter: Spike and Angel try to readjust to living with each other.


	5. Everyday Life

**Everyday Life**

⸹

North Carolina

June 2004

⸹

"Aargh," Sally growled, fairly dancing with impatience. "Aren't you two ready yet?" She was trying to hurry them outside to watch a meteor shower. "The Bootids won't wait."

"Go on," Angel urged her. "We'll be right there." He tossed Spike an amused look as she left the kitchen, turning off the light as she went.

Spike picked up a bowl of popcorn still warm from the microwave and waved Angel ahead of him. Angel was carrying several bottles of beer in his hands, and he held open the door with his back for the other man. "We're here," Spike said with exaggerated patience as they joined Sally in the yard. The night was moonless, the yard lit only by fireflies, and there was no glow of civilization on the horizon to mar the darkness. Sally had set out three lounge chairs, and she was already sprawled in the one in the middle, her arms behind her head.

Spike chose the chair to her right and straddled it. "Open wide," he said, and tossed a piece of popcorn into her mouth. She was the only vampire he'd met whose appetite for human food came remotely close to his own. He bit back on the three suggestive remarks that came to mind; they had been very polite to each other since the incident in the apple orchard.

Angel took the remaining lounge chair and shared the beer around. He leaned back and took a swig, then propped the bottle against his crotch. "Hey!" he cried, pointing above them and to the right, getting the honor of spotting the first shooting star. It was a good meteor shower, with enough spectacular ones to keep the watching from becoming tedious.

"Oi!" Spike cried in annoyance half an hour later, swatting his forearm. "I'm the bloodsucker here, you little git." He flicked the dead mosquito away.

"The bane of the South," Sally murmured.

"It's your fault. You feed us too well," Angel complained. "No wonder the mosquitoes confuse us with the living." Sally had been as good as her word with the fussing and catering, but the reason they stayed was that they were safe, an unfamiliar feeling for them both. Here in rural America, they remained concealed from Wolfram and Hart's agents. Neither Rupert Giles nor Charles Gunn had given them reason to leave their hiding place, and as time went on, they became less inclined to go. After an inauspicious beginning, their hostess kept them safe from each other. They were watching a meteor shower together, and it felt entirely normal.

Sally made their safe haven comfortable as well. New clothes, mostly in shades of black, showed up in their dressers, unannounced and freshly laundered. After a rather heated discussion of literature, a large box arrived, uncommented on, filled with eighteenth century works in the original romance languages and volumes of nineteenth century poetry. Their hostess made onion blossoms for Spike fresh from her own garden; Angel's weakness for ice cream led to a freezer stocked with several flavors of Ben & Jerry's.

Although their bodies had rounded from the plentiful blood supplied to HemiGlobal Research, Angel wasn't sure he'd been in such good shape since living in Sunnydale. An unused machine shed had been cleared for his Tai Chi and reequipped with punching bags suspended at varying heights, and Sally always had work for them around the farm. The three of them had put new tin roofs on the barn and all the outbuildings, which glowed like silver under moonlight. She taught them how to run barbed wire and erect split rail fencing. When she'd learned that Spike knew how to weld, she had him repair the radiator on her tractor. Angel could even recognize most of the goats by name.

He didn't resent doing an occasional good night's work, because it didn't seem like a burden. A more typical night involved the three of them sitting around the kitchen table, Angel and Spike vying to tell the best story. Without humans around, they returned to their nocturnal ways. Many nights were spent away from the farm for one reason or another: to get Sally's mail from the post office, to shop, or just for fun. Their hostess introduced them to the lazy pleasures of fishing a moonlit lake and watching drive-in movies. The second heartiest laugh Angel had that summer was when they were watching a horror movie and Sally looked over to find Spike lunging at her in full vampire face. She'd screamed.

Sally might be an odd mix of vampire and human, but she helped them forget they were. Her smooth Southern manner set the tone for their own interactions, and the fight they had their first week on the farm had not been repeated. The two men found or rediscovered ways to talk to each other, despite the weight of their history. Spike listened to Angel's stories of a hundred years of lonely misery; Angel heard Spike's messier transition to ensoulment in the blond man's tales. It became easier to overlook the many things they disliked about each other. They were living as unapologetic vampires, too, and not being around humans helped.

The popcorn was long gone and the bowl full of empty beer bottles before Sally sighed and sat up. "I should go weed the runner beans." There was no enthusiasm in her voice.

"Let it go," Spike said cheerfully. "The weeds will be bigger tomorrow and easier to see." Raising an eyebrow, Sally nodded and settled back against the cushions.

"Terrifying," Angel said. "Spike's actually making sense." Just because they were getting on didn't mean he had to pass up an easy opening. "Nice one," he said after a few minutes of silence, tracking a meteor across the sky. Then he hid a grin and added slyly, "Reminds me of when we played tennis a few days ago, you know, a small, round shape hurtling through the air so fast it catches fire. We should do that ag–"

"No." Sally's voice was implacable, as was the narrow look she gave him. None of them had played before (Spike had, but not since he was human), so when she suggested trying tennis, no one knew that it would turn into a not-so-veiled grudge match between the two men, devolving into ten- and twelve-foot runs up the fence enclosing the court, lethally fast projectiles, a shattered bank of overhead lights, and the splintering of two expensive rackets which, fortunately, had not been made of wood. The next day, Sally brought home several Frisbees, which kept the men as much as a half a mile away from each other.

"I enjoyed tennis," Angel said, shrugging innocently.

"Yeah, got to keep those racquetball moves intact for the next time you play Satan," Spike said sarcastically.

"He wasn't Sa –" His defense trailed off, as Izzy had certainly been steeped in evil. He tried another angle. "You shouldn't judge someone by how they look, Spike," Angel protested, shifting in the lounge chair. "Profiling is wrong."

"I always wanted to be an astronaut," Sally said after another long while of gazing up into the night. "I still do, want to go past the atmosphere and see things like this in the vacuum of space, where they're just rocks floating along." Looking upward instead of at each other, confidences were easy to share. "If I knew anyone at NASA, I swear I would already have gone to them. I mean, who better to be an astronaut than a vampire? We don't need air except to speak, and we don't have to be kept very warm, either. Above zero Kelvin, sure, but think of the energy they could save. Just slap a few of those necrotempered windows on the space station, and you've got a long-term crew."

"You don't want to get involved with the government, pet." Spike's voice was slow and quiet in the warm night. "They already know about demons, and they aren't fans."

Sally glanced over at him. "They know about us?"

"I can't say for certain that NASA does, but there's a, uh, paramilitary section of the government that's extremely interested in vampires and demons, including yours truly. They managed to capture me and stuck an experimental chip in my brain that zapped me every time I tried to feed or defend myself, like a cattle prod in my head." He ignored the eyebrow Angel raised at this bland description of his behavior.

This got her to look all the way over at him. "They put a torture device in your head?"

He shrugged. "Yeah."

"When?"

"A few years ago, in bloody Sunnydale, of course."

"The United States government put a torture device in your brain?" she repeated, just to be sure.

"Yeah." He stared up at the sky. "It malfunctioned after I got my soul and nearly killed me."

"You don't want to go to the feds," Angel concurred. "They, uh, drafted me in World War II and sent me on a one-way mission down to a crippled Nazi submarine." Spike gave a soft snort of amusement, but didn't add anything.

"Crud." Sally let the word die away. "So much for working for NASA." After a moment, she went on. "They broke their word, anyway. You know, not all the science fiction things they promised have happened. Like vacationing on Mars, going to work on the moon, zipping around in flying cars, things like that. I mean, here we are past the millennium, and there aren't even decent robots yet." Spike choked a bit on a swallow of beer.

"No air cars, but we do have cell phones," Angel pointed out.

"And online shopping," Spike offered in a strangled voice.

"Okay," Sally agreed grudgingly. "There is that."

Angel broke the ensuing silence. "I wouldn't want to go into space. It just seems… cold."

"Not for me, mate," Spike agreed. "Too far away from my natural feeding grounds."

"I don't know," Sally mused. "Think about looking back down at the planet, seeing the whole roundness of it, all spread out lovely and blue, shimmering like a sapphire against the black of space. It's a way of touching God, I guess."

"That's too far for me to go looking for God," Angel said.

"Well, you can see him here and there on earth," Sally said amiably. Angel shifted, and the silence took on a different quality. She sat up a bit straighter and looked at him. "You don't believe in God?" she asked, incredulous.

He shrugged. "I haven't seen any proof."

She gave him another look. "Angel... no proof?" He studied his hands, and Sally shook her head. "Oh, I know you're thinking Bible Belt and red states and all that garbage. I'm not speaking as a naïve former Baptist; this is something I've decided after a lot of thought. I don't have the vocabulary to describe or encompass a supreme creator with anything other than my pale concept of God, so, sorry if I sound religious.". She leaned back against the lounge chair once again, looking up. "I've read the holy texts, but I have to go with Einstein on the existence of God: how else can you have all of that emptiness up there and a world teeming with life down here?

"But the thing that really makes me believe in God is the demon that dwells in here," she continued, touching her chest. "I mean, if something this evil exists on our planet, something good must care enough to keep it in check. Demons wouldn't allow things as heartbreakingly silly as giraffes to get a chance to evolve. Ergo, God exists – and he has a sense of humor."

"'Splains Angel's hair, then."

Angel ignored the blond man and chose his words carefully. "I don't want to offend you, Sally. You see the best in people, still see the beauty of the world. But you've not seen the things I've seen. There is such crushing darkness out there, such evil…" his voice trailed away. "I've met powerful beings who call themselves gods, and they are inevitably evil or, at best, amoral. I've spoken with the Powers That Be, and they don't care about us. When good happens on this earth, it's usually because a human cares beyond measure and sacrifices everything for the greater good. It isn't because angels are looking out for us, or that there's a grand plan." He looked over at her, almost apologetically. "I've seen miracles, Sally, but I don't feel loved or watched over. Maybe your God did exist, once… but not anymore."

She nodded, but seemed glad to have her turn in the conversation. "The fact that humans will sacrifice themselves at all to me is… The fact that you two are still here… never mind." She seemed to make a sudden decision to abandon the argument. "We don't agree, and that's okay. My standard for 'proof' is a lot lower than yours. Or different, maybe." She turned her head and looked at Spike. "What about you, honey? You've been awfully quiet."

He drained his beer and sat up, not looking at either of them. "You don't want to know what I think."

Sally sat up, too. "Of course I do."

"Right, then." He sighed. "I agree that we don't have the vocabulary to define God, so I'll stick with what I've seen personally, and that is that anything that calls itself a god should be destroyed before it can destroy. That's all they're capable of doing." Spike stared at the bottle in his hands and sighed. "Maybe there's a force for good out there… but not for me. Know someone who went to heaven, someone deserving." He stopped for a moment and folded his arms over his chest, almost hugging himself. "Know that after I sacrificed myself to save the world, surrendered my soul and my being with the full knowledge–" He looked up, his features fey in the cold starlight. "Didn't matter. No heaven for me. No forgiving God like the C of E is sellin.' If there is a Creator, it doesn't have any use for me. I'm a destroyer, a demon. If my… essence hadn't been kept in this dimension, I would be in hell."

"Spike," Angel said, his voice unusually gentle. "That was Pavayne."

"Was it?" He stood up. "There's no reward for the likes of us. No one up there cares. We can't get there by our actions, and there is no mercy." He half-turned his head toward Angel. "Sorry, mate." Spike dropped the empty bottle on top of the others and strode back to the house.

Sally stared after him, then twisted around to look at Angel. He met her horrorstruck gaze levelly, not denying the truth in what Spike had said. She gestured toward the house, but the dark-haired man just shook his head. She muttered something so foul that Angel was taken by surprise, then went after the other vampire herself.

"Spike?" Sally found him sitting in darkness on the living room couch. He turned his head away. She sat down next to him and regarded his profile for a minute. He wasn't going to turn to her, she realized, so she sat up on her knees next to him. Hesitantly, Sally slid one arm around his shoulders and put her cool hand on his cheek. He resisted, but she forced his head closer until she held him against her chest. They sat that way a long time. Spike gradually relaxed, accepting her comfort. Finally, he lifted his hand and covered hers, pulling it to his mouth. He kissed it, then twined his fingers with hers, thinking of Tara, for some reason.

Sally returned the gesture with a kiss on the top of his head, then sat back on her heels, putting a little distance between them. He could feel her eyes on him, but he couldn't bring himself to look at her. "Good thing I'll live forever, huh?" he asked, his voice raw. It was the most he could say about it; telling Fred had been hard enough. Nothing in his life or unlife had hurt as bad as being exiled to hell after choosing to be one of the good guys. Not even Buffy could wound him so deeply.

She didn't answer, but squeezed his fingers. They sat in silence for another few minutes, then Sally let go of his hand, unfolded her legs from beneath her, and pulled him toward her. Spike let himself settle back against her lap, felt her arms fold around him protectively. He stretched his legs out along the couch, getting comfortable, and felt another kiss on his brow.

"Someone down here cares." Sally's words were soft but adamant and did not require a reply.

The corner of his mouth lifted. She couldn't see it, he knew, but it didn't matter. He closed his eyes.

⸹

Sally shut the living room door cautiously and turned toward the kitchen. She had held Spike while he slept for more than an hour and found to her surprise that she was hungry. She grabbed a jar from the refrigerator and didn't bother warming it. The temperature hadn't dropped much this summer night, anyway.

Angel was still lying on the lounge chair, looking up. He sat up as he heard her approach, patting the space where his legs had been. Sally dropped down next to him, opened the jar, and took a long drink. She held it out to him, and he took it, drank, grimaced, then passed it back.

"How is he?"

"Asleep." She took another, smaller drink. "He's on the couch, so don't go sit on him or anything."

"Did you talk?"

Sally made a cynical sound. "What could I say? I'm such a… I'm an idiot, Angel, talking about things that you guys have actually lived."

"You're not an idiot, Sally," he said in a patient voice, reaching for the blood. "You didn't know."

"I would never have brought any of that up if I had a clue," she said, shaking her head in disgust. "And I do know better – three rules of polite conversation: never talk about death, money, or religion."

"I've been to hell," Angel said bluntly. He ignored Sally's shocked exclamation. "When I lost my soul in Sunnydale, I used my blood to open a portal to a hell dimension. Buffy had to kill me to close it, and I went into hell." He lifted the jar. "To this day, I'm not sure why I was sent back. We think the First, the original evil, brought me back as part of a plot to destroy the Slayer, but that didn't happen, obviously. I never want to go back." He drank and handed the jar to her.

"I've been tortured before and since, but a lot of what I choose to do is in the hope that I'll never be stuck in a hell dimension again. It's that bad. I used to believe that if I lived as a champion, atoned for the evil I did as Angelus, there was going to be something better than that in store for me. Now… I don't expect to win, but at least I'll have done some good."

"So you have hope?" Sally asked. She felt him shrug.

"I don't know if I would call it hope. My plan was that, by the time I have to leave this body, I'd have won so many for the good guys that the Powers That Be wouldn't have any choice but to… well, maybe not reward me, but send me somewhere else."

She smiled. "Would you be offended if I say that seems like a very Irish attitude?"

"Not if a red-haired lass is saying it," Angel said with the old lilt, shrugging again.

She smiled up at him and slid her arm around his waist, giving him a quick squeeze. Angel smiled, too, but it faded as he looked into her upturned face. She was pretty, kind, and undemanding. She was a vampire, strong so that he wouldn't have to hold back. And she had a nice ass. Nina was far, far away. He lowered his mouth toward hers.

Sally's lips parted, and then she pressed them together and looked down, wrapping both hands around the jar. Angel looked up at the sky and forced a long stream of air out through his nostrils. So much for getting his hands on that ass, and wasn't that an Angelus thing to think? He saw another meteor shoot overhead and thought for a moment that he should be feeling guilty because of Nina. He didn't, though.

"Angel, I like you very much," Sally began.

"But?" he interrupted.

"But the first time I ever saw you smile was when you saw Buffy at Mr. Giles' house. I saw the way you two look at each other, and I'd sooner gnaw my arm off than come between that, even for a minute." After their talk about typical vampire behavior, Sally had expected this. She looked up at him again, taking herself out of the equation. "I know that kind of love. It's the real thing."

After a moment, a cynical smile twisted Angel's lips. "It is real, and I left her behind so she could find a normal man, feel the same way about someone who can give her a normal life. You know there's no way Buffy and I can end up together." He had a random mental image of a sheet of cookies baking in an oven.

"No, I don't know that," Sally said, her tone sharp. "Look, I've never spoken to gods, I've never been to hell, but if there's one area where I am qualified to speak, it's about love. I loved Henry for over sixty years, for longer than I've been a vampire, long after those moments of 'true happiness.' Just because you aren't together right now, just because it isn't easy, doesn't mean it's not love, Angel. True love has a way of working things out. Death is nothing to true love; I'm a standard of proof good enough even for you."

He smiled faintly at that. "What I can't give to her is a lot more than what I can." Angel leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees.

She shrugged. "You aren't giving her anything, Angel, and I think you'll regret it. She's not like us; she won't be here indefinitely. The unsolicited advice of the day is, while she's here, give her what you can."

"Pain, heartache, heartburn, gray hairs…."

"Love. Do you think any of us ever get enough of that?" Sally shrugged again. "I have a good feeling about you two."

He studied her face in the dim light. "Love can be a terrible thing," he began.

Sally cut him off. "Unequal love, grudgingly given love, immature and jealous love, yes, I agree with you. But true love is never a terrible thing." She stood up and offered him the jar of blood. Angel shook his head. "Just like you think I have a lot to learn about the powers that govern… existence, but are too nice to say so, I think you have a lot to learn about the power of the heart."

Angel watched her walk to the back door. "My heart doesn't work," he said in a quiet voice, an image of a dried-up walnut now in his mind.

"I heard that," Sally called over her shoulder. He grinned despite himself.

⸹

Hours later, Spike lifted the blanket as he woke on the couch, wondering when Sally had covered him. It was around noon, he estimated, and the house was quiet except for an infrequent hissing growl from Sally's room. He stood up, feeling like his bones were made of lead, and stumbled toward his bedroom.

He paused outside Sally's door and placed his hand on the wood, the blanket slipping from one shoulder. The key that he had kept in his pocket while they traveled now hung on a hook above the door. Something inside him had eased while he rested in her embrace, had taken comfort from contact with another of his kind. Spike thought of the closeness he had shared with Buffy the few, precious times they had slept in each other's arms, held each other with love. That wasn't something he could ever share with Sally, he thought, listening to the sounds of the Turok-Han inside her bedroom. With anyone, really. Still, she had touched him, soothed him, made him more whole, somehow. It was the way Joyce always made him feel, as if he mattered, as if he belonged.

Spike left her door and went to his own bed, lying down although he didn't think he could sleep any longer. He wasn't sure he could have done what Sally had, go to someone to offer comfort without knowing the offer would be accepted. He couldn't risk himself like that anymore. The house was still and the bed warm, and he slid back into sleep, escaping the bleak thoughts.

⸹

Sally stared at Angel at the breakfast table the next evening. Just as he finally got irritated enough to call her on it, her gaze shifted to Spike. When she looked back at Angel, he was waiting for her.

"What?"

"You two look better."

"Better than what?"

Sally shook her head. "I don't know. I just think y'all look better than when you first got here." She shrugged, embarrassed. "Younger, I'd almost say." She stood up and carried her mug to the sink. "Well, those runner beans aren't going to weed themselves."

"Easy picking, now that you've waited," Spike pointed out. He watched her leave through the screened doors, then started a bit when he turned back to the table and found Angel staring at him. "What?"

"She's right. You do look better."

"Not a chance, Peaches. I'm not that lonely."

"You wish," Angel countered. He refilled his cup, then looked up, feeling Spike's gaze resting on him.

"You don't look so… puffy, yourself." Spike's comment was reluctant. "Do you think there was something… poisonous in the, I dunno, atmosphere at Wolfram and Hart?"

Angel paused, the blood halfway to his lips. "Might have been. I wouldn't put it past them." He took a sip. "Maybe it's just clean blood, hard work, fresh air."

"Yeah, we vampires thrive on fresh air," Spike said sarcastically, but he let it go. He stood from the table. "Sally wanted me to help de-California emissions her truck. Think I'll go provide my services to the lady, help her get her engines to revving," he added suggestively, touching his abdomen. He hated to waste a good line, and since he wouldn't say it to her, it had to be Angel by default. "I'll leave you to brood and whatnot."

As much as he was inclined to do just the opposite of whatever Spike suggested, Angel did find himself brooding, wondering if there had been something toxic in the air or water or even brushed onto the surfaces of their desks. He thought of Wesley's tenuous hold on sanity, of Gunn's uncharacteristically ruthless ambition, Lorne's gloominess. Sighing, he forced the fear away. No matter if the poison had been literal or figurative, the firm had been unhealthy for them all.

⸹

July 2004

⸹

"You paid over four hundred dollars for these!" Angel exclaimed in an exasperated, accusing tone, finding the receipt at the bottom of one of the bags of fireworks Sally had brought home. Just learning that there were stores in the South that sold the pretty explosives to any random consumer had been a shock.

His hostess shrugged. "It'll be worth it, if y'all vent some testosterone blowing up things instead of whaling on each other."

"We haven't!" Angel protested. "Not lately."

Spike raised an eyebrow. "And just how is setting off firecrackers and smoke bombs going to ease my lonely, celibate condition, pet?" he asked, his voice silky.

Sally gave him a narrow look. "Not that kind of testosterone." She turned deliberately to Angel. "Y'all are city, so you don't have a clue about what living out in the county means." She included both of them in her grin. "It means, no zoning restrictions. Since it rained during the day and the woods are damp, we're going out to the backyard and fire off Roman candles and mortars and rockets until we founder on it." When neither man returned her grin, she gave an exasperated sigh. "Okay, then. Just try it for a few minutes, and if you don't like it, we'll go rent videos or something."

Two hours later, she sat on an upturned bushel basket and watched the two men take turns firing mortar shells, sending sizzling and crackling packages whizzing high into the air to explode in colorful sparks, the reports thudding against their sensitive ears. After some initial grumbling by Spike about a missing lighter, both of her guests had gotten into the destructive spirit of things. Now they were grinning like kids.

"How'd you know we'd like this, Tolliver?" Spike asked, pausing on his way to get more fireworks from the stash. He smelled of cordite, and his eyes glittered in the dark with manic energy.

She shrugged, looking up at him. "Every so often, Henry would get his shotgun and go hunt down a varmint to kill." She shrugged again. "It wasn't because it was nibbling the garden or digging holes in a field. He just needed to kill something. It… let off pressure, somehow. He needed that, after coming back from the war."

Spike considered her answer for a moment. "Expensive way to vent testosterone," he finally drawled, waving a hand to where Angel was readjusting the length of pipe they were using to launch bottle rockets.

"Worth every penny to see you two having fun."

"You ever wonder about old Henry going postal?"

"Nope. Not so long as he had that varmint gun as a release valve."

He nodded, then gave her a cheeky grin. "You still have that varmint gun?" At her nod, he continued. "You ever thought that Angel, with that hair, looks somewhat like a fat, lazy, old woodchuck?"

"Be nice," she warned him, using the schoolmarm voice. "Besides, down here, we call 'em groundhogs."

⸹

Nothing about the night stood out from any other. Angel and Spike were sitting in the wicker chairs, beers in hand, watching the stars and listening to the tree frogs.

"Remember when we rode those camels in Morocco?" Angel asked.

Spike twitched at the abrupt end to the silence, then sprawled further into the chair. "Yeah. Lot of stars over that desert." They had been part of a caravan, swaddled in robes, traveling with the traders for four days before descending on them at an oasis by the light of those stars.

"This is nice, too," Angel added, meaning the night and the company.

"Doesn't suck," the blond man agreed, and they sat in the chairs for long minutes afterwards, each content in their own way.

⸹

Spike stopped in the doorway of the kitchen. "You're still up," he said, stating the obvious before returning the truck keys to the pegboard rack where they belonged.

Angel grimaced, shifting in his chair at the kitchen table. "Yes."

Spike regarded him for a moment, his head tilted. "What?"

The big vampire shook his head instead of answering. "Want some?" He held up a half-full quart of blood.

"Okay."

"Get a cup." Angel watched him move through the small kitchen. He smelled only of himself and gasoline, a lonesome combination. "Where'd you go?"

Spike shrugged and slung himself into his habitual chair. "Just learning the roads."

"You shouldn't stay out so late."

"Yeah, pro'ly." Sunrise didn't bother him so much these days. "Sally go to bed?"

"Yes."

Spike studied him. "You're saying 'yes' in a curious way this morning."

Angel grimaced. "Accidentally saw her just out of the shower. She was going from the bathroom to her bedroom and her towel slipped."

"Naked, wet, female vampires…" Spike teased.

"Shut up, Spike." He shifted again in his seat, an uncomfortable movement the blond man caught. He lay his head back and chuckled, a rich, throaty sound that made Angel glower. "I mean it, boy. Shut up."

"Using pet names, Peaches?"

"And don't call me that."

His good mood increasing, Spike sprawled against the back of the chair, grinning insolently. "Just go knock on her door."

"I'm a guest here," Angel ground out. He looked down at his clenched hands, then made himself relax. "Besides, I'm probably not her type."

"Nonsense." Spike examined him critically. "You are looking better, lost a little weight–" his smile deepened as Angel glared at him, "but I'm probably prejudiced." He picked up the jar and poured some blood. "After all, you are the last man I slept with." He gave Angel's words back to him with relish.

"Really?"

The surprise in his voice couldn't be faked. "What do you mean, 'really?' Like either of us are particularly turned that way."

"Nothing," Angel backpedaled. "I just thought, you know, you've had more opportunities than I…" He trailed off under the increasingly dark scrutiny of the other man's gaze.

Spike lifted his chin. "How many people you shagged since Darla kicked you out?"

"Can you be any more crude?"

"Yes, I could. No names, just a number."

It was Angel's turn to examine Spike, trying to guess where he was headed. "Three." Then he winced. "No. Thanks to Lorne, four."

A fleeting smile crossed the chiseled features. "Eve, yeah." Then he was serious again. "Seven, since Dru and I left Darla, and one of those is Dru. And another of them, Elizabeth, hardly counts, since you and Darla had already invited them into the family bed."

Angel heard the decades-old resentment still lingering in the boy's tone. "As in, James and Elizabeth?"

"Yeah, as in James and Elizabeth. Not the point." He leaned forward, planting his elbows on either side of his untouched cup. "The point is, you've four notches on your belt after getting souled up. I have seven and no one new since I fought for my soul." He leaned back, satisfied.

Angel just looked annoyed. "What's your point, Spike?"

"My point?" He looked outraged, and the emotion seemed to fuel his ability to wound with words. "My point is, you know me too damn well to assume I've shagged my way across the world. I was perfectly happy in the family bed. It was you and Darla brought other people in, so jaded you needed more variety than four rather limber vampires could provide."

"You're right," Angel admitted quietly.

"I – of course I'm right." He deflated a little.

"What about hunting?"

Spike closed his eyes. "Never hunted that way after you got your soul and stopped making me."

Angel closed his eyes, too. No, sexual predation had been his specialty, one he insisted the younger vampire learn. Once again, he was judging Spike by his own brand of behavior, and once again, Spike was lacking by Angelus' standards.

The blond vampire, however, was looking uncomfortable. "Well, sort of, once in the seventies. Strange days in New York, and all."

"Once?" Angel raised a brow.

"And it wasn't like I did anything, other than pick an entrée. It's just, uh, I," he picked up his mug, "got fellated." Spike took a drink.

Angel gave him a speculative look. "By your entrée?" He sensed some embarrassment and couldn't think of what was causing it.

The blond man didn't look up, but his jaw tightened. "By a lot of entrées."

It felt so good to smirk. "I take it these were male entrées?"

"Hey," Spike protested, looking up. "First, you know hunting doesn't count. Two, no one counts blowjobs as sex anymore. Three," he closed his eyes, "it was pretty much anyone who wandered upstairs at Studio 54, male, female, and other. And there were a _lot_ of drugs floating around." He opened his eyes. "Lot of them in me."

Angel lifted his hands. "Not judging, here." But he nonetheless suppressed a smile. "Quite a mental image, though, I must say."

"You always did like to watch," Spike said waspishly. A reluctant grin lurked at the corner of his mouth, undermining his words.

A line of humans kneeling before his boy, as they should before a Prince of the Aurelians… The smile faded from Angel's face. He hadn't had a thought like that for years, decades. Or, more accurately, for months, since Pavayne dared to harm what belonged to him, presumed to touch what was his to love or destroy. How far down a dark path had he taken this boy, so innocent even after Drusilla sired him, to where he would end up the focus of such debauchery –

"Whatever you're thinking, mate, leave off. You're setting yourself up for a serious bout of brooding. Know the signs by now."

He had to smile. "I guess we know each other pretty well."

"Yeah, that's depressing. Now I feel a definite need to get pissed."

"Just how drunk do you plan to get?" Angel gave him a flirty look.

Spike snorted. "Not enough to drop my towel."

He shook his head. "You can make _anything_ sound dirty."

"'S'a skill few can master."

⸹

Too good to be true, Angel thought. It was raining, a good night for him to explore the steep northern part of Sally's property. Now he was looking at an old wooden building not quite a mile from the farmhouse. A shiny new padlock stood out against the rusty hinges, arousing his suspicions. He wiped water from his eyes and walked around the perimeter, kicking himself for waiting weeks to check out this area. Angel ran his hands over two wide boards on the back wall of the shed, then curved his fingers around one of them. He pulled with a slow, steady pressure, and the old nails at the top and bottom of the plank slid from the frame. He quickly separated the second board and moved inside.

There was little enough light to work with in the gloom of the building on a rainy night, but he could see the outline of something hidden beneath a tarp. He took a handful and began to slide it from whatever was beneath. He heard the sound of mice squeaking in protest and waited until their scurrying feet had fled before he pulled it all the way off. The apparatus wasn't immediately familiar, but after a couple of moments, he figured out what it was. An evil smile spread across his face. Oh, Sally, he thought. I've got you now.

"Hey, Angel. You're soaked," Sally remarked as he came into the kitchen where she was folding laundry. She reached for a dishtowel, but before she handed it to him, her motions slowed and she looked up at him, sensing his mood.

"Duh dum duh-duh duh-duh duh-duh dum," he hummed.

Her eyebrows drew together. "Theme from 'Mission: Impossible?'" she guessed.

"No." He looked wounded. "'Deliverance.'"

"Oh?"

Angel smirked at her, then, asking, "Guess what I found down in the woods?" At her blank look, he added, "Near the beehives."

For a long moment, she looked puzzled. Then her brow cleared. "Oh!" She gave him an embarrassed grin. "Grandpa Tolliver's. Well, my grandfather had one, too, but I reckon you found Henry's grandpa's still."

"Moonshine, Sally?" Angel teased.

She tossed the towel at him. "Yeah, yeah. Grandpa Tolliver was a runner, made his to sell. My mom's father made his for 'medicinal' purposes. He made me taste it when I was a little girl. Told me I'd grow hair on my chest, and if I didn't take a drink to burn it off, I'd get fuzzy just like him." She shuddered. "So, I tasted it."

Angel gave her front an exaggerated leer. "Seems to have worked." He met Spike's eyes as the blond man came in from the hallway. "Guess what I found?"

"Cleavage? A still, you ponce," said Spike, raising a sardonic eyebrow. "Vampire, remember? I heard." He propped himself against the doorway to watch, his hands held out in front of his chest. With too much spare time, he'd broken down and painted his nails black for the first time since Buffy died.

"So, Sally," Angel said, stalking towards her. "How about it?"

"You're dripping on my linoleum," she admonished.

"Do you know how to make moonshine?"

She gave him a patient look. "It's illegal, Angel." Her voice was very deliberate.

"Mm-hum."

"It's dangerous, too. And really stinky. And a lot of hard work."

"Yes?"

Sally sighed. "Why on earth do you want to fire up the still? I'll take you to the biggest liquor store in Asheville; you can get thirty-year Scotch or Kentucky bourbon or something that won't eat the varnish off furniture."

"Can you do it?" He was less than a foot away now.

She let her head fall back and looked at the ceiling in resignation. "Yeah, I reckon so."

"Yes!" Angel scooped her up and spun her around, chuckling in an evil manner.

"Crazy Irishman," Sally sniffed, when he put her down. "Grandpa Tolliver made Henry write down the recipe before he died. It's around here somewhere."

"What do we need?" Angel asked, as if prepared to take notes.

Sally leaned against the counter, considering him. "First, the still needs to be cleaned. Some of the parts might need to be replaced, the thumper, probably. I haven't looked at it in years."

"There's a new padlock on the door," Angel remarked.

She nodded. "I lost the key to the original one. It was pretty rusty anyway."

"Clean it. Okay, what else?" Angel pressed.

"Um, wood for the fire, but that's not a problem. We've got cords and cords up here. Use the four-wheeler to take the wood down. Then use it to move the still to the spring – it's down the hill a bit."

"What else?"

"Jars. If you go around the side of the house, you'll see a cellar door. Find twenty or so quart jars down there and clean them."

"You don't have any of those gallon jugs with the x's?"

"No, fresh out of those." Listening to them, Spike smiled as he recognized her schoolmarm voice.

"Okay, then what?"

"Then, Angel, we go to town and buy a bunch of sugar and yeast and cornmeal."

He showed her the evil grin once more. "This is going to be great!" Chuckling, he went out the door.

Sally glanced over at Spike, who was already chipping the just-dried paint from a thumbnail. "What do you think?"

He shrugged. There had been sort of an itch between his shoulderblades, an old, telltale sign that Angelus was gearing up for a really foul kill. "Nice diversion. Helps him keep busy." Thank God for sublimation, he thought.

Sally turned back to the unfolded laundry. "Moonshine," she sighed and gave a slight shudder.

⸹

Angel rocked back and forth on his heels, impatient to begin. He had worked tirelessly, and the still was ready to go. The mash mixture had only been bubbling for two days, but the hot weather had helped the fermentation along. "Can we start now?"

Sally looked up at him, misery on her face. "Promise me you won't tell anyone." The three of them had moved the still the short distance to a clearing where a spring trickled from the hillside. She'd informed them that distilling made the bark of the surrounding trees darker, a telltale sign revenuers would look for, so the contraption was in a different location each time. Now it was assembled, the raw ingredients sealed in the kettle, and dry wood beneath waited to be kindled.

Angel paused, settling his weight from the balls of his feet. "Don't tell? Why not?"

She rolled her eyes and launched into an excessively rural voice. "I spent the summer with my friend in North Carolina. We made moonshine! Then we ran around barefoot in overalls and played the banjo! Then I married my cousin!" Spike looked away to hide his grin.

Something seemed to occur to Angel. "You wouldn't happen to have any of those Daisy Duke shorts, would you?" At her hostile look, he raised his palms. "I won't tell, Sally." Angel had a sudden idea, and his eyes lit up. "Or, I'll say that we were preserving a folk art."

Mollified, Sally gave him a reluctant smile. "Smooth-talkin' man. My mother warned me about men like you."

"What about men like me?" Spike asked.

"She was a godly woman and didn't know men like you existed." Her smile took any sting from her words.

"Are we ready?" Angel asked impatiently.

Sally sighed. "All right. Spike, fire it up."

Spike touched the wood beneath the kettle with his new lighter. After it caught and settled into a good blaze, the illumination from the fire joined what little moonlight made it through the dense summer foliage. They fed the fire and waited for the contents of the kettle to come to a boil.

"How long until we can drink it?" Angel asked. "It doesn't take long, does it?"

Sally raised an eyebrow. "You don't age corn liquor, Angel. You sell it or drink it as quick as you can. Get it in a quart jar, it's ready." She shook her head. "While we're waiting for the doublings, you wanna hear about Grandpa Tolliver's shine and a guy over in Buncombe County, Buddy Phipps?"

Angel shrugged. "Sure, while we're waiting." Spike hid another smile, recognizing Sally's storytelling tone.

"All right. Grandpa Tolliver was notorious in these parts as a bootlegger during Prohibition. Eugene was his given name, and he had a reputation for being dangerous man, carrying a gun and everything. Well, old Buddy Phipps was fencing along the road that ran by his property early one morning, just a straight length by a field. He heard a car coming up real fast on that dirt road, so he looked up. Roaring up at him, raising a huge cloud of dust, he saw Eugene Tolliver's Model T. Nothing but flat fields on either side of him, no place to hide. So Buddy stood there and waited, hoping that Eugene would just honk and go on by.

"But, no, he hit the brakes and stopped. 'Mornin,' Buddy!' he hollered. 'You workin' already?' Well, Buddy allowed that he was, and that seemed to just gall Eugene Tolliver. 'I won't have a friend of mine workin' this early in the mornin!' he said, and told Buddy to get in the car and come with him. Well, Buddy didn't want to, and started to explain that he had a lot of fencing to do. Old Eugene pulled out the biggest, shiniest, longest pistol that Buddy ever did see and pointed it right at him. Then Buddy reckoned that he had time to go for a ride, after all.

"Eugene Tolliver hit the gas and they flew down the road, that big pistol on the seat between them. Buddy noticed that he had a jar of corn liquor propped between his thighs. Eugene saw him looking at the moonshine. 'You want a sip?' he asked. Buddy was a decent man, didn't hardly touch liquor. He said, 'No, if it's all the same to you, Eugene, I'd rather not.'

"Now, this wasn't the answer Eugene was looking for. He took up the pistol again and pointed it at Buddy. 'I asked you if you want to share my corn liquor, what I put up with my own two hands.' Since he put it that way, Buddy allowed that he might like a sip after all. Eugene handed the jar across to Buddy, who took a drink. His eyes watered and rolled back up into his head, he shook and shuddered, his face went deathly pale, then turned the color of fire. He saw spots and felt his stomach shrivel up like a raisin. After about a minute, his jaw unlocked. 'Smooth,' he managed to wheeze, and handed the jar back.

"Grandpa Tolliver looked across at him, then he picked up that pistol and held it out to Buddy. 'Here. Take it, Buddy!' Buddy took the gun, holding it like a lady holding a stinky sock. 'Now, you turn that gun on me, Buddy!' Buddy was confused and the thought of aiming a pistol at another person just ran all over him, but he was more scared of Eugene than he was of any gun. Once he had it pointed, Eugene looked over at him and begged, 'Buddy, I want you to order me to take a drink of this here shine or else you shoot me, okay?'"

Angel chuckled. "Cute story. You're just trying to wind me up, though."

"Your funeral," Sally said, shrugging.

"Already had one."

She had been telling the truth about using the still; it was hot, smelly, and definitely work. After they had distilled enough to fill about half the jars, Angel was ready to call it a good-enough night's work. By the time they doused the fire, cleaned up the still, and straggled back to the farmhouse, it was almost three in the morning.

Angel settled himself on the couch and waited for the other two. Spike and Sally came in at the same time, but the blond man saw the three jars of clear, oily liquid lined up on the coffee table first.

"Moonshine, Spike," he said, grinning at the other man rather evilly. "Also called mountain dew. Want a sip?"

"Angel," he warned.

"Do you know the last time I got falling-down drunk?" Angel put his feet on the table next to the jar on the end. "Is there a better place to do it than here? Miles away from any humans?"

Spike shook his head, but sat down on the opposite end of the couch. Sally perched on the edge of the recliner and stared at the glass containers. After a moment, Angel sat up and passed each of them a jar. He took the one remaining and unscrewed the lid.

"I am reminded," Sally said, watching as he lifted the jar to his lips, "of the great philosopher Socrates' last words: 'I drank what?'"

"Cheers," Angel said, and took a sip. The other two watched him.

"Tears of joy, mate?"

"No," he whispered, his voice strangled. "But I think this will do the trick. A toast." He raised his jar until the other two touched theirs to his.

"So, what are we toasting?" Sally asked.

He hesitated a moment. "Friends." His voice was firm, and he met both green and blue eyes briefly.

"To friends," Sally agreed, raising her glass and taking a small sip.

"Friends," Spike echoed. His voice was neutral, and he took a heartier drink than either of the others.

⸹

An hour later, Angel was sprawled on the floor of the living room, having pushed the coffee table out of the way. He loved this, being among his own kind again. Most of his jar was empty. "All right," he said, his voice slurred. "Celerbee… celebrity that you would sire. You first, Sally."

She was also on the floor, lying on her stomach with her arms folded beneath her head. She had managed about half of her jar, declaring the brew wasn't all that strong, not like old Eugene's. "Kurt Cobain." She made an annoyed face, working very hard to do so. "'M selfish. Should still be writing songs."

Angel pointed a large finger at her in agreement. "Yeah, a little demon would have kept him from caring." He swiveled his head to look at Spike. "What about you? Who'd you sire?"

Still sitting on the couch, Spike had conquered half of his jar. A heavier drinker than either of the others, he was considerably less buzzed. "You know who Kurt Cobain is?"

"Sure. He's got that wife that reminds me of that one vampire from Australia, whazzhername."

"Don't say anything… Melba? Was it Melba?"

"Yeah. Thass her. She even scared Darla."

"Still say Darla slept with her."

"Yeah, pro'ly. Anyway, who'd you sire?"

"I don't sire anyone, mate. You know that."

"Jus' for the sake of argument," Angel pressed.

Spike sighed. "Marilyn Monroe," he said with a shrug. He actually thought she'd be tedious as a vampire, but it was an easy answer. "We could bleach each other's hair." When Angel finished chuckling, he asked, "How 'bout you? Who would you sire, Angel?"

"Mae West," Angel said, sighing. He took another drink of moonshine, then grimaced. "Saw her in person in New York once. Itty-itty-bitty thing," he slurred, "but…" He held his hands over his head and described a fairly coordinated hourglass figure in the air. "Pocket Venus."

"Whazza pocket Venus?" Sally demanded, her eyes closed.

"Little, tiny goddess just about right to tuck into your pocket," Angel said, logically.

Spike sighed. "You've always liked 'em short, mate."

"Dru wasn't that short," Angel contradicted him.

"Darla was."

"Darla," Angel sighed, and Spike was surprised to see tears form in his eyes. "She was such a good mom."

Spike raised his eyebrows and borrowed a Scoobyism. "Thought I was the 'Oedipal much' one in our happy family."

"Not my mom," Angel said, annoyed. "Righty. Food you miss most."

"Bread," said Sally, promptly. "I get so dang tired of spicy food. I'd like to be able to taste something supple." She frowned and tried again. "Subtle."

"Oranges," Spike mused, a slight smile touching his face at the memory. "We always had oranges at Christmas." After a moment, he prompted, "You, Angel. Food you miss most?"

"Oatmeal." This earned him a pair of disbelieving stares, but he was well set to ignore them.

"I'm changin' my answer," Sally said suddenly, her voice dreamy. "Garden tomatoes, just like a little piece of summer. Red and ripe and hot from the sun, just picked from the vine. All firm and warm in your hand… bite into one, a big, sloppy bite, and feel the tang on your tongue and taste the color red and just let the juice run down your chin… mmm…."

Spike stared at her, bloodlust leaping in his veins at her description, inadvertently so much like feeding. Her eyes were closed as she rested her head on her folded arms, a smile on her lips. He glanced at Angel, who was looking at her with a rather different kind of lust. "Care to change your answer, mate?" he asked sardonically.

"Oh! I meant to ask earlier." He put his arms behind his head, lifting it enough to stare blearily at them. "Either of you ever eaten frog?"

"Not in years," Sally said. Then, ever helpful, "Still got gigs somewhere around here, if you want."

"Had 'em once in France," Spike answered, his voice heavy.

"Bet you had frog legs, huh?" When they both nodded, Angel grinned. "You got it wrong then."

"How's that?" Spike asked.

"You wanna know how to eat a frog? You don't eat their legs," Angel said dramatically. "You hook their legs over your ears. That's how you eat a frog."

"Eeww," Sally said, giggling.

Spike laughed reluctantly. "Yup, there's definitely an apocalypse afoot: Angel told a joke."

The smile faded from the big vampire's face. "Heard that back in the eighties. Been saving it to tell to…" To anyone, he supposed.

Sally shook her head, missing his quick melancholy. "It's like a pair of frog-rimmed glasses. Gonna need a bath to get rid of that visual." She lifted herself up onto her elbows. "I can't get up," she informed them, "and I'm getting really sleepy." She let her head fall toward the floor. "I'll fall asleep and end up killing you both." She giggled again. "That's not funny. Wouldn't be good at all, but I can't make my legs work."

Spike set his jar deliberately on the far side of the couch and stood up, swaying slightly. "Here," he said, offering his hand. After a moment of looking at it owlishly, Sally put her hand in his. He hauled her to her feet, then braced her as she tipped toward him.

"Thank you," she said, again very deliberately. "Night, Angel."

"Night, Sally." He waved at her from the floor.

"You know, Angel, this much alo-cohol would kill you if you weren't dead already," she pointed out, swaying into the blond man at her side.

"Thass what I was going for," Angel agreed. His look now held nothing more than benevolence.

Spike shook his head and led his hostess into the hallway. He held the door to her bedroom, then found the lights. "Here you go."

"Do I have shoes on?" They both looked down at her bare feet. "Oh. Good." She pulled the scrunchy from her ponytail and shook out her hair. Then she shook her head again. "Wow. That makes me really dizzy."

He smiled a little, thinking that she had just done a very Fred sort of thing. "Come on," Spike said patiently, moving toward her bed. Sally more or less sat down on it and watched as Spike pulled the terrycloth wristbands over her limp hands. He sat on the bed and closed the manacles about her wrists, then ankles. "There. You're all set for the night."

"Thank you. You know, this stuff isn't as strong as what Grandpa Tolliver brewed, but I think my head is going to hurt tomorrow."

"I think you're right."

"I owe you a hurting head, don't I, honey?"

"No, not at all," he told her, but it made him grin.

"Teliha," she licked her lips and continued in the deliberate voice, " _tequila_ is a lot better than moonshine. Angel's a crazy man."

"I think I prefer almost anything to tequila."

"I really like you, Spike. Did you know that?" Her eyes were closed.

"I do now," he said, smiling again.

"Good."

"Go to sleep," he told her, but she already had. He left her room, turning out the light. As an afterthought, he got a garbage can from the bathroom and put it by her bed, thinking of her nerves after the vampire attack in Cleveland. It didn't occur to him how much better he felt, having the opportunity to take care of someone again. He stood outside his room for a while, debating about whether to leave Angel on the living room floor. Mostly because of the toast, he went to get the other man.

"Spike!" Angel was still on the floor and sounded delighted to see him.

"Angel!" Spike said in return. "Let's get you off the floor." He helped the other man up, and Angel collapsed on the couch. He didn't let go of Spike's wrist, and pulled the blond man onto the cushion beside him.

"Surely you weren't trying to get me drunk and have your way with me," Spike said dryly, looking down to where his grandsire's fingers clutched his arm.

"No. And don't call me Shirley." He grinned, pleased that he could make Spike laugh, however unwillingly. "I like that stuff," Angel proclaimed, pointing at his now-empty jar of moonshine.

"So I gathered." Spike disentangled his arm. "I just don't know why."

"Not quite legal, not quite bad." He shrugged. "I can identify."

"Well, that makes as much sense as anything."

"I was the sensible one," Angel agreed. "You were always rash, like I was before Darla sired me."

"So Darla said, often and over again. She never much liked me."

"I never much liked you, either, 'cept when I liked you."

"Yeah, and you're the sensible one."

"We used to go out drinkin' together all the time."

"Used to do a lot of things together that we don't do anymore," Spike agreed, irony in his voice.

"I miss that." Angel's voice was soft. "Don't you?"

Did he miss it, the feeling of family? Spike wasn't sure; it had all been about Buffy for so long. He dodged the question. "C'mon, mate. You'll want your bed."

Angel let Spike haul him to his feet. "We've sort of been friends for… ever."

"Yeah, seems that way. Watch the doorknob."

"You're my only buddy, Spike. Gunn, I was the boss. And Wesley… Wes is dead. He stole my baby, anyway. You were a beautiful boy, William." A bit of brogue crept into his voice. "What a family we had." He looked at Spike, seeming suddenly much more lucid. "I do miss it." For a moment, there was a hint of yellow in his brown eyes. "'S'good to be here, no humans. Never really your friends, humans."

"You're just a wee bit drunk, Angel. Here we are." Spike opened the door to Angel's room, didn't bother with the light switch. "You've got loads of friends, and you'll be able to think of all their names tomorrow." He propelled the dark-haired man toward the bed, his mind on the possibility of a football game on one of the Spanish-language channels.

Angel put a hand on Spike's arm again. "I'd rather fight with you than anyone, Spike."

"Must be why we fight so much, then."

"'Longside you, I mean."

Spike sighed and made himself meet the other man's eyes. "We make a pretty good team," he admitted.

"You're bold, and I'm canny. Don't know why we don't get along."

"The women I love, you get to first," Spike said flatly.

Angel shook his head. "We're too much alike." He fell back onto the mattress, his legs still on the floor. "Like father, like son. Connor too much…."

Spike looked puzzled, the name niggling at his memory, then shook his head. "All right, Granddad." He lifted Angel's legs and shifted them on the bed. "Get some sleep."

"I couldn't do what you did."

The blond man didn't try to misunderstand, just paused at the door. "Well, there was a lot you did that I couldn't bring myself to do. Evens out, dunnit?"

"I hate you sometimes. Sorry 'bout that."

"'S'alright," Spike shrugged. "I hate you a lot of the time, too. Good night, Angel." He closed the door.

"Good night, Spike my boy. Love you."

Spike stood outside the door, feeling his stomach land somewhere around his knees. He closed his eyes for a moment, swaying even though he felt suddenly stone sober. His jaw flexed. "Stupid git," he whispered, hoarse and fierce. "Love you, too." Then he fled the house, not returning until daylight drove him inside.

⸹

All three vampires were reserved the next night. Sally took the opportunity to pick a mess of green beans and sat quietly at the kitchen table to break them, putting them in freezer bags for the winter. The task held no interest for either of the men, and both ended up outside, leaving separately. After a walk along the property line, Angel headed down to the water. He came upon Spike just as he went into the lake for a swim, pale skin disappearing into the water but his bone-white hair a visible beacon.

A swim sounded good to Angel, too, so he doffed his clothes and waded into the cool water. He glided forward, making almost no sound, the smell of green water and trees bringing to mind midnight swims with his drinking buddies in Ireland. There would be splashing and insults about the size of genitals and frequent trips to shore for more whisky. Swimming with Spike was more like hunting, silent, still. Angel found himself wishing for more moonshine.

A swish of water ahead and to his left alerted him to where Spike had left the lake, and he struck toward the same point. The boy was sitting on a rock, feet muddy, watching him. He wasn't close enough to tell if his expression was sardonic or measuring. Angel went ashore and found a nearby rock, and they both sat looking back over the lake, drops of water streaming down their pale bodies.

"So, come here often?"

Sardonic, then. Angel tried for something neutral. "Nice night."

"It is."

He looked down at the mud drying on his own feet, wishing the rock were closer to the water so he could rinse them off. Angel glanced surreptitiously at Spike, who didn't seem to be as fastidious, sitting as still as a statue. The blond man raised an arm suddenly, spoiling the illusion as he pointed across the lake a little to the right of the boathouse.

A small herd of deer had wandered down to drink. The younger ones went directly to the water's edge, dipping their noses to the cool liquid. Behind them, three adults waited their turn to drink, velvety ears swiveling toward the night sounds, on alert for danger, white tails and stamping hooves ready to signal the presence of any predator. Across the bank, ageless death watched, silly grins on their faces.

The herd was gone in less than four minutes. The two vampires could hear them loping up the slope, probably headed for the hayfields higher up on the property. "Whyever would you want to be human," Spike asked, "when you can see things like that?"

"Human?"

"The whole Shanshu thing."

"As I recall, you were bent on fulfilling the prophecy yourself."

"Didn't really want to be human. Just wanted to upstage you."

Angel looked away from the shrugging boy, his teeth clenched. "Spike, you didn't upstage me. You nearly killed me."

"Might have been a bit uneasy about hell," the blond man muttered, "not that long after Pavayne, you recall. Cup was supposed to wash sins away." He put his chin a little higher in the air. "You're twice my age. Didn't 'spect to defeat you, not a hundred percent. Dangerous for me, too. Anyway, you didn't answer the question. What's so appealing about bein' human?"

Angel didn't answer for a long time. "I'm twice your age."

"Yeah, think I just said that."

"You've seen vampires older than me."

Spike's turned to stare at him, amused. "It's about vanity? 'S'not like you'd have to look at yourself in a mirror, mate."

"No, it's not about–" Angel pulled his knees closer to his chest, feeling exposed, not because he was naked. "A hundred years, I hid from my own kind among humans. Easy to do; I almost never went to demon face. But…" He trailed off again, then simply held his hand out toward the boy.

Spike gave him a narrow look, as if expecting Angel to use it to strike him. After a moment, he took the big vampire's hand in his own and examined it. Spike's eyes widened, and he searched Angel's pained face.

"I noticed a couple of years ago," he said. "My nails are beginning to taper. Maybe another decade or two, they'll be talons all the time." Angel firmed his mouth. "Maybe it would have been better to never try to live in the world again, but, Will," he let out most of his breath, "I just got so tired of being lonely."

Having found a look years ago that scared people and still got him laid, Spike hadn't given much thought to his appearance since. He had moved with ease among demons and humans alike most of his existence, with more success than most vampires. To his mind, Angel had chosen his hundred years of exile, but it wasn't as if either of them could live in the demon world anymore. When the day came that Angel couldn't pass as human, there would be no place for him.

Realizing that he was still holding his grandsire's hand, Spike squeezed his fingers and let go. "Wouldn't worry about it overmuch, Li – er, mate. Probably get dusted long before you look like the Master."

Angel snorted, putting his forearm back on his knee. "Thanks. I feel so much better."

After a few minutes of silence that were somehow quite comfortable, Spike took a breath. "When you can't do human any longer, I'm still around, I'll look you up. Don't promise to be good company, but I'll drop by and raid your liquor cabinet."

"Thanks," Angel said again, quietly.

"Yeah, well," Spike mumbled, standing up and starting for the water.

Surprised by the embarrassment he felt rolling off the boy, Angel stood too, catching the blond man by the arm. He leaned forward carefully, not wanting to see Spike flinch away, and touched their foreheads together for a second. It was a gesture of affection between vampires.

Spike clearly wasn't expecting it. He gave Angel a tight nod, then turned and waded into the water, going into a flat dive as soon as he was thigh-deep. Watching him swim away, almost as quiet as an African crocodile, Angel felt a small smile settle onto his lips. Since Spike never had gotten the hang of staying dead, the boy's offer was comforting.

⸹

Most mornings, Sally washed dishes by hand, watching the lightening sky through the kitchen window. When she finished, she would close the blinds and wipe down the counters. Today, Angel had helped her dry.

"Why don't you use the dishwasher?"

She gave him a distracted smile. "Habit. We haven't always had a dishwasher. Plus, it usually takes three or four days for me to fill it up, and smell gets to be a factor."

"More of us here now. More dishes," he pointed out.

"It lets me think," she shrugged.

"What are you thinking about?"

"My neighbors, the McNeils. They're gone now." She ran her hand along the bottom of the sudsy water, checking for missed cutlery. "I killed Dale. Had to dust him. He was the one who kept the farm going. They sold out after that and moved away."

"How long ago?"

"1951." Sally pulled the stopper free and began rinsing the dishrag. "I'm just glad I don't remember any details."

"Be thankful."

She turned to examine him. "You remember what your demon did before you got your soul, right?" When he nodded, Sally furrowed her brow. "I don't. I mean, I know I've fed," her green eyes darkened, "I know I've killed. That feeling afterwards. But I have to backtrack by scent."

"I remember." Angel wasn't looking at her. "I never bothered backtracking." He lifted a shoulder. "No soul."

"Why does your soul feel guilty when it wasn't even there?"

"Because it's a curse. I'm supposed to feel guilty for what Angelus did."

Her gaze sharpened, but all she did was pat his arm. Sally dashed out a couple of minutes later, giving the purple sky a nervous look, and ran to the motor pool. "Hey, Spike. Just thought you'd like to know morning's coming."

He was crouched down next to the motorcycles. "Know that, pet."

"Can I ask you a question?"

"Sure."

"I was just talking to Angel about guilt over what our demons do." She looked troubled and wasn't facing him.

"Yeah?"

"I don't remember what happens when my demon gets loose. I know it's my responsibility," she added hastily. "Angel says he remembers things he did before he got his soul, and he feels guilty for them."

When she didn't say anything else, Spike gave her an impatient snort. "I remember what I did, and I can now feel guilt for it. Soul lets that happen. No real remorse for most things without a soul."

"You did those things." Before he could interrupt, Sally went on in a very soft tone, "but Angelus did the things Angel feels bad about."

Several emotions passed over Spike's expressive face, none of them exactly noble. "Noticed that myself. Probably just a way of distancing himself from the pain of it." He stood from beside the bikes and began walking away. "But in other people's eyes, making that little distinction sure does give him a free pass." The deep voice was bitter as he called over his shoulder. "Me, though? I'm just a serial killer in prison."

Sally could tell he was quoting someone, and her heart hurt for him. She thought of the manacles she wore every night. Whoever said those words, they sure did fit her. Sally sighed and headed through the dawn back to the safety of the farmhouse.

⸹

A few days later, Angel made his usual two calls to Charles and Giles. He accepted that he wouldn't be going back to L.A. anytime soon and had asked Charles to send flowers to Nina, with a card that said simply 'Goodbye.' He had also asked Gunn to make some very roundabout inquiries about one of the last clients he had, a young man, just to make sure he wasn't being harassed. Charles gave him the good news that Connor had not been bothered by any strange visitors. Angel gave Gunn his heartfelt thanks, and hung up the phone, feeling lighter than he had in days.

The second call was less satisfactory, and he went out of the house to the outbuilding that Spike mockingly called the motor pool, where Sally kept her tractor, the ATV, and Henry's toys, an old car and two motorcycles that he had purchased during his first, restless retirement in the late sixties. The blond man had gone into rhapsodies over the bikes, a Ducati 900ss and a Harley V-twin, and had recently devoted most of his time to getting the Harley running. Spike was practically living in the shed, and Angel only saw him at the breakfast table.

Sally was sitting on an old milking stool, holding a glass of ice water and a socket set as she watched Spike work. "So, this skeleton walks into a bar and says to the bartender, "Give me a beer and a mop." Spike's hands stopped their movement, and he gave her a reluctant grin.

She looked up at Angel when he came in, smiling at him. "Hey, Angel. How was everyone?" Spike held out a hand, and she put another socket in it without asking which he needed. Whatever they were working on, it apparently wasn't going very well.

"I swear this is metric," he muttered, the ratchet slipping. "Bollocks." He tried again to wedge his large fingers into the engine, but the space was too confined.

"Everyone's fine," Angel answered, "but Giles wants me to meet one of the slayers in Knoxville, Tennessee, to pick up something. He wouldn't say what it was over the phone, but he thought we would all be interested in it."

Sally nodded. "Knoxville's less than two hours from here, depending on how fast you drive. Quickest… No, better do easiest. Pick up I-40 West and just follow it in. When does he want you to go?"

"Tomorrow." Angel leaned against the four-wheeler, watching Spike adjust a vise grip. "Apparently one of the slayers is driving down to Florida to meet her family at the beach." He shrugged. "Knoxville's on her way. Any idea where Neyland Stadium is?"

Sally grinned. "Yeah, it's easy to find. It's where the Volunteers play football. American football, I mean," she clarified, glancing at Spike. "Just look for the University of Tennessee exit; the stadium is on the right, and you can't turn left because the road runs along a river. I'd say you can't miss it, but I don't know your sense of direction."

"I've got a good sense of direction," Angel said, a little defensively.

"Then you can't miss it. You're welcome to take the truck or the car," Sally offered.

Angel gave her a look that was half-warm and half-exasperated. Sometimes her Southern hospitality put him on edge; it seemed almost an invitation to take advantage. "Thanks," he said. "Do you mind…?" He gestured at the tarp-covered car, and Sally shook her head.

"Let me see a 5/8ths," Spike said, holding out his hand again, ready to disassemble the entire motor. "Bloody stupid Harleys… if they didn't sound so good…" Angel had been mildly surprised that Spike knew how to fix engines, to weld, and had no fear of computers, but the two of them had been out of touch for decades. He wondered if Spike played up the useless layabout persona for his own purposes. It worked to his advantage that people underestimated him, forgot that he was the only vampire to have killed two Slayers. Angel knew that he underestimated the blond man, too, even though he knew better. Old habits were hard to break.

He was jealous of Spike; he had admitted that to himself some time ago. Professionally, there were two Slayers, and personally, there was one Slayer. He would listen, along with Sally, to the stories Spike told about life in Sunnydale, his love for Buffy always unapologetic, clear to see. What Spike had done for her was so far outside the range of normal behavior for a demon… Angelus didn't love 'Buf' and wouldn't take a soul if it was offered on a silver tureen of virgin's blood.

Worst of all, Spike seemed to have much less trouble readjusting to having a soul. Angel was so resentful, he was surprised at how well the two of them had been getting along. The easy mood at the house had a lot to do with Sally, he supposed, but they did have a long history together, some affection for each other. He dimly remembered talking companionably to Spike the night they'd made the moonshine. He'd felt close to the blond man again the next night, but it hadn't lasted. Yet the three of them had an easy camaraderie. This was the closest thing to a normal family life Angel had known since before Holz had taken Connor.

Their past, though, was always lurking. Sally had taken them to a county fair to see the Independence Day fireworks. The three of them had squeezed onto a single seat on the Ferris wheel and ridden it during the display. Angel had felt free and lighthearted, almost young, a cool breeze ruffling his hair in the hot night, high above the crowd with the sizzling, booming rockets. Afterwards, he and Spike had each won an enormous stuffed cartoon character for Sally, using their unnatural strength to readjust the odds of knocking over the bottom-heavy wooden pins. The surly barker leered at Sally as he passed her the second stuffed animal. "So, Red," he had asked, giving their innocent competition a sleazy spin, "which one you taking home tonight?" His eyes were fixed on her chest the whole time.

It must have ticked Sally off, because she had aimed a rich, sex-laden smile at the man. Although he wasn't on the receiving end of it, Angel could vouch that the target was ultimately the man's groin, because that's certainly where he'd felt it. He'd wondered again about the mesmer, about how well she understood her own abilities. Sally handed a stuffed animal to him and the other to Spike, then slid an arm around their waists. "Both. Tonight, I'm taking them both home," she had answered in a sultry voice, leaving the barker with a stunned look on his face. Sally slipped her hands into the back pocket of their jeans as she guided them away from the booth, her fingers a casual caress with every step they took.

Once they were several yards away and the crowd had hidden them from the man's view, she released them and burst into laughter. "Did you see the look on his face?" she had asked. "Priceless! Hah! What a jerk. Trying to get you two to fight, just because you beat his game." Spike started chastising her, going on about _Penthouse Forum_ for some reason.

But what Angel remembered most was the brief look he shared with Spike over her head as they turned away from the carnie, alive with the silent communication that had so often passed between them when they hunted. Sally wasn't the first girl to offer to take them both home. Their contrasting fair and dark good looks had always been effective bait. They had held women and men between their bodies as they feasted, and it had been a game to see how long they could keep their victims willing. More than one human had died happy in their shared embrace, oblivious to the fact that lust was secondary to their hunger. As their eyes met over Sally's head, Angel knew that if he made a move, Spike's would be automatic and complementary.

Then the blond-haired man gave his head a small shake, breaking the connection. When Sally finally appealed to him to tell Spike he was overreacting, Angel gave her a false smile and advised the other man to lighten up. He'd shrugged when Spike caught his eye, clearly disgusted, but there was no reason to involve Sally in their darkness. If they were in any way typical demons, they would all be going home to a shared bed. Angel wondered if Spike lost sleep that night, too, seeing those long-dead humans again, the faces of their victims. Angel suspected he hadn't, and he resented that most of all. The boy's soul wasn't a curse.

Angel took a deep breath to clear his thoughts, stood up from the ATV, and went over to the car. It was low but not short, and he pulled the tarp toward him. He stared at the uncovered car for a few seconds, all morbid memories leaving his mind, then said hoarsely, "Sally, this is a 1967 Mustang."

Spike abandoned the motorcycle and went to Angel's side, admiring the sleek black machine. Then he got a wicked grin on his face. "Mustang Sally," he said, looking over at her. "Ride, Sally, ride."

She shot him a warning glance, but got up from the stool and came over to them, the ice in her glass clinking. "Henry's other midlife crisis toy," she said by way of explanation. "Don't think I haven't heard all of the Sally songs before," she told Spike pointedly, "from Henry." Looking over at Angel, she grinned. "I don't have to ask which one you want to drive to Knoxville. I had it out the first of May. It's in good running condition, not like the bikes."

"V-8?" Angel asked, a lopsided grin on his face.

"Mm-hmm," Sally replied, clearly delighted.

"Angel's in love," Spike said.

"And you aren't?" Angel shot back. He tossed a look at the bike by the doors.

"Why don't you go to the kitchen and get the keys?" Sally suggested. "Take it out and see if sounds all right." He looked down at her, and something in his expression made her grin. She slid her arm around his waist and gave him a quick hug, and this one felt perfectly wholesome. "Go on. Just remember to be back before dawn. There's nothing special about the windows on this one." She watched him leave, then turned to Spike, shaking her head in amusement.

He was watching her with narrow eyes. "How about 'Lay Down, Sally?'"

"Heard it," she said shortly. "Détente, honey. Don't make me use the ice water." She held the glass up in a threatening manner.

Spike snatched it from her in a blurred movement. He gave her a cheeky grin and lifted the glass to his lips to drain the water. When he took it away from his mouth, he had captured an ice cube between his teeth. Spike passed the glass back to her, then took the ice in his fingers, giving her a considering look. Sally backed away from him, and he took a step forward. She fished in the glass for an ice cube of her own, and Spike stopped.

"Détente," he agreed. He popped the ice back into his mouth and crunched it up. "You wouldn't feel it anyway through those seven layers of clothes," he added in an undertone, knowing full well she would hear. What he heard was Angel returning, so he went back to the bike and began moving the scattered tools away from the doors.

This wasn't the only time Spike had noticed Sally hugging Angel. She was comfortable touching the dark-haired man, putting a hand on his forearm or shoulder, even going to him for help removing a splinter from the back of her leg after an enthusiastic Gimli had knocked her into a new fencepost. She had been wearing shorts that night instead of overalls or jeans. Angel had leaned past her, his large hand wrapped around her bare thigh, and leered at Spike with apparent amusement. The other man seemed to have an intuitive grasp of how to keep his teasing meaningless, whereas the only way Spike had found to stay in bounds was to keep his mouth shut. He wasn't good at that.

Since the meteor shower, Sally only touched him in the most impersonal ways, like when she handed him a tool. He knew it wasn't logical to feel hurt by this; he was the one who had set the boundaries their first night in North Carolina, after all, and he had violated those boundaries in the orchard. Part of his desire for touch was just his vampiric nature; they were tactile creatures. Sally was still perfectly friendly, easy to talk to, but nothing in her behavior showed that she was attracted to him.

Angel got her touches.

Rivalry would always be part of his relationship with Angel. He didn't mind her tweaking the carnie, for instance, but he did mind that she included Angel in the tweaking. The agreement he had with Sally also made him more aware of how much his strong sexual nature shaped the way he viewed the world. Spike still recoiled from how quickly his thoughts had turned from violence to sex in the apple orchard. The soul was supposed to cure that.

Despite all of these logical realizations, his body still wanted her touch. She was friendly and female and not bad-looking, and he'd never met a vampire that wasn't good in bed. Sexual desire was manageable, of course. The scary thing was that he wanted more of her tenderness, that he wanted anything beyond sex from her or any woman who wasn't Buffy. Maybe he had a chance here to be accepted, if he didn't let his stupid cock bollix it up.

He had missed an opportunity for acceptance by not making an extra effort to get to know Tara, had even missed something deeper with Fred by holding himself aloof from the people at Wolfram and Hart. Spike knew he'd thrown away a chance with Joyce, too blinded by his passion for her daughter to really get to know her. Women were so much better at loving than men were, and he'd known that undemanding, pure love until he died the first time, had so taken it for granted that he simply killed his mother... He'd had it with the Nibblet, too, until he messed everything up.

That still hurt too much to think about.

Angel was family, and he didn't want to look at that closely. They hadn't fought each other for months in Los Angeles, had actually fought side-by-side the way they had in the bad old days. It had been better than those distant years, in fact. Darla always disapproved of their brawling, which never made sense to Spike, since that was what had attracted her attention to Liam in the first place, his ability to fight in a bar.

Sally was asking Angel to run an errand, to get a metric socket set. The big vampire drove the Mustang carefully from the barn, and honked the horn in farewell. She winked at Spike and put her finger to her lips, listening to Angel drive the length of the driveway in a conservative manner. Once he had shut the gate behind him and pulled onto the road, they heard him run the gears in less than ten seconds. She gave an amused snort.

"How come you didn't go with your best boy, then?" he asked, his hands on his hips as he looked down at the remaining tools, debating whether to do any more work. "Sod it." He hunkered down and began putting them away.

Sally paused on her way out the doors, carrying the stool back to the barn. "Angel seems like someone who needs his space, I guess, time alone with himself. Driving is one of the best ways to think things through."

"Mmm," Spike said, noncommittally, and Sally went out. Alone sounded pretty good. He cleared away the toolbox and turned out the lights, leaving the doors open for Angel's return. He didn't want to go inside, so he wandered over to the dark tobacco shed to the parked truck and let down the tailgate. Sitting on it, kicking his feet, Spike lit a cigarette.

"Hey," Sally's voice came from the doorway. "I don't mind the smoking, but please not in the highly combustible old wooden building."

He closed his eyes. "Sorry. I didn't think."

"I kind of figured that's exactly what you were doing out here."

He looked up at her outline in the doorway. "Yeah, well, not my strong suit."

"Mind if I join you?" She didn't wait for his answer, but sat down on the other end of the tailgate. Spike immediately stood up and put out the cigarette with the toe of his boot, being extra careful.

"Poor man's antidepressant," Sally said. She saw his head turn toward her. "I slogged through most of a book, I can't remember the name, something really dry and academic, and toward the end it described the antidepressant effects of tobacco. That was the eureka moment for me, because I've seen so many people sit and stew, then light up. All you ever hear is that tobacco's more addictive than heroin, but I'd never heard why, really. An almost instantaneous, short-lived antidepressant."

"Huh." He leaned against the tailgate, but didn't sit down.

"Good thoughts or bad thoughts?"

He didn't answer for a long time. "Complicated thoughts." He saw her nod in the darkness and felt her shift.

"I'll leave you alone, then."

"No, that's okay. Can be alone with you." He opened his mouth to apologize, cringing at a memory that his soul hurriedly trotted out.

"Thanks," Sally said. "That's the nicest thing you've ever said to me." He felt her fingers brush his shoulder, and he looked around at her.

"You're joking."

"No. That means we can have a comfortable silence, right? That's a good thing."

"Guess so." He tried it out, listening to the quiet between them, but mostly what he heard were his own thoughts. Was that what Buffy had meant, that she was comfortable with him, before everything went pear-shaped? No, that was another idea that was far too painful to contemplate, that he might have wasted another opportunity. "Sally?"

"Hmm?"

"Something you ought to know. About me, I mean."

"Let me guess," she said, a smile in her voice, "you can't see why anyone would own more than three pairs of shoes, have trouble expressing your emotions, and think about sex every twenty seconds."

"Well, two pairs and ten seconds, but, yeah."

"Spike, I already knew you were a man."

"Did you, now?" He stopped himself.

"Mm-hmm."

He looked over at her again, surprised by the open appreciation he heard in her voice. Sighing, he lifted himself back onto the tailgate, gripping the edges. "You definitely need to hear this, then."

"Shoot."

He looked into the darkness. "What we talked about before… You need to know why I earned my soul."

"To win the fair Miss Summers," she replied promptly.

"No, nothing that simple. Listen, Angel doesn't know this."

"I won't say anything to him," came her quick reassurance. It occurred to him that he didn't doubt her, but he let that revelation pass unexamined.

"Something happened between me and Buffy, something I've never told anyone. Dawn knows, because she still hates the sight of me, but I don't think Buffy told all her friends. So, I'd like you… just to listen.

"About a year before I got my soul back, Buffy died. She died because," he took a breath, "because I failed her. Had that chip back then, and we worked together. I was already in love with her, wanted her approval, wanted her to need me. We were up against a god at the time, a crazy, skanky god, but a god, nonetheless. Buffy took care of the god, leaving me to protect… the thing the god wanted, the key it needed to get back to its own world. I failed, though, and Buffy had to give her life to prevent the god's hell-world from taking over ours, to close the door that had opened.

"She trusted me, and I let her down, and it nearly drove me crazy. If I hadn't had Dawn to take care of that summer… Dagenham, me. I was the only one strong enough to protect her kid sis, so Buffy had to rely on me, before the end. Could still do that, after, still take care of Dawn.

"It was months later that Willow brought her back to life, blood magic, that. Red thought Buffy was in the god's world, in hell. But Buffy had done her tour of duty. She was in heaven," he said, his voice tightening, "and her friends pulled her out."

Sally made a small sound and covered his hand with hers where it still gripped the edge of the tailgate.

"Never easy, coming back from the grave – you know that. Was 'specially hard for her. For a long time, I was the only person she told where she'd been. And I loved it, being her confidante. But that's about all she ever shared with me. She felt she'd been kicked out of heaven, and living on earth again was like being in hell. She thought she must deserve punishment, somehow, since she hadn't been allowed to stay.

"Not that I had this all figured out at the time. I was just so happy to have her back, in any condition, so happy that I didn't have to be miserable anymore. 'Bout that same time, the chip in my head started malfunctioning. The first human I realized I could hurt was Buffy – she was just a bit different after being brought back, just different enough not to trigger the cattle prod in my skull.

"We'd shared a couple of kisses – I guess I was just another demon in what was a whole world of hell to her. When I could hit her, though, hurt her… it changed things, made her notice me. I could… be a tool for punishment. We started having, I don't know, an affair? It was all fine by me. Vampires and violence, yeah? And I loved her, had loved her for so long. But it was killing her on the inside, the way she was using me, hurting me, letting me… hurt her. She kept it a secret from everyone, still felt shame, at least. It wasn't always about the… danger that let her feel alive, but she would never let it be about love.

"So, she ended things. I was devastated, but not crazy with it, you know? She had been up front, broken it off with me square, left me with my dignity. She knew what that meant to me. Not like Dru, who slept around without even bothering to try to kill me – and me in a wheelchair."

Sally made a sound of distaste and ran her thumb across his. The mention of Drusilla and Darla would nearly always crack her Southern politeness and bring out a catty remark about the demons who had sired her friends. This time she didn't say anything, though, and Spike continued.

"Buffy hadn't told anyone. She might depend on me, might trust me to take care of the Nibblet, but she was ashamed for anyone to know she was sleeping with a soulless thing. There was another girl, another Scooby hanger-on, who had been dumped – left at the altar, literally. She and I… we drank too much one night and wound up having a table-ender. It was meaningless, made us feel even worse afterwards, you know what I mean."

Sally was staring at her feet. Spike let go of the tailgate and turned his hand, sliding his fingers between hers. He needed a connection with someone just now, and, by default, she was it. He could never tell this to Angel.

"No, I guess you don't. Take my word for it, then. Trouble is, all parties found out, and then I, in a fit of fuck-you, let slip about Buffy and me. It was a nasty, unpleasant business. Dawn came to my crypt, told me how bad I'd hurt her big sis. I was feeling low, anyway, and hearing that Buffy still cared enough to feel… anything….

"Dunno what I was thinking. Went to see her, meaning to apologize, tell her that I hadn't slept with Anya just to hurt her. I caught Buffy at a bad time. She was injured and… weak. Slayers heal quickly, like us, but she had just been in a fight, I reckon."

Spike's words slowed, and he shut his eyes. "Seeing her, with the thought in my head that she still cared… Didn't listen to her say 'no,' because she had said it in the past, trying to convince herself she didn't want me, and not meant it. She did this time, and I didn't… understand the difference." He gripped Sally's hand and enunciated his words carefully. "I tried to rape her."

After several long seconds, Sally reached over with her other hand and covered their entwined fingers. He closed his eyes even more tightly.

"So she trusted me, and I betrayed that. I loved her, I hurt her, she hurt me, I failed her, but I'd never betrayed her trust until that night. She managed to push me away, and… I got it, then. I left, confused, not knowing why I hadn't… finished, and not knowing how I couldn't have understood. I was a demon, and I knew I shouldn't be having those… emotions. Feelings. I remembered a legend that I'd heard, something I didn't believe, really, but I went halfway around the world to try to give Buffy what she deserved.

"Course, what I really wanted was something for me, for her to love me, for me to never have to see hurt and anger on her face again. I forgot that there were billions of people with souls that she didn't love. I went to the other side of the planet, went through the trials, got my soul, and finally understood.

"Went back to Sunnydale and was in bits for a while, quite mad. Wasn't just my soul weighing on me, but when my conscience met my crimes… that was a big part of it. I think I scared Buffy more after I had my soul than I ever had without one." His voice was scathing. "So you should know, Sally, what I'm capable of."

When she didn't reply, he tried to pull his hand away, but she held on as tightly to him as he had to her earlier. Sally cleared her throat. "What you were capable of as a demon, honey, was to feel such remorse," she had to clear her throat again, "that you changed. I never knew that was possible."

She did let go of his hand, and scooted closer to him, her arm going around his waist. He clenched his jaw, not wanting to be touched now, bitterly aware of the irony.

"What you were capable of then is not what you are capable of now."

"Most rapists have souls."

Sally sighed and took her arm away. Perversely, he wanted her embrace again. She slid off the tailgate, then turned and pulled him from his perch. She looked up at him in the gloom, still holding his hands, and took a breath to say something. Instead, she slid one arm around his waist and the other up to the base of his neck and held him.

It took a long time before he wrapped his arms around her, leaning on her and letting his head fall forward until he was curved around her smaller frame. His eyes were wet, but they were in darkness, and she had said she would not tell.

"Someday," she said in a quiet voice, "you can tell me the rest of the story, how you regained her trust and how she came to care about you again. She does, you know. She told me so." Sally gave him a fierce hug, and he knew it meant that she was about to disentangle herself. "You're a good man," she said firmly, lifting her head.

Someone else saying those words would have meant everything, once. "How can you know that?" he asked.

"How do you know I'm a good person?" she countered, sliding away from him and taking up his hands again. "Everyone knows their own sins; everyone has a conscience that loves to play with those memories and make you feel like scum. Because of me, five people are dead. No matter what I tell myself about Henry needing me, there's a part of me that knows – _knows_ – I should have gone out into the sun before I killed even one person.

"Good people feel bad when they hurt other people, and they learn from that so they don't do bad things in the future. It's the people who don't care whether they've hurt someone that you have to watch out for." She shrugged. "You qualify as a good person in my book, for what it's worth."

"It's worth a lot."

She studied his downcast face. "I'm not scared to be here alone with you."

"That, um, that means a lot, too."

She wasn't sure she would have picked up on it in full light, where she might be watching his eyes or his mouth, but Sally could feel the way his hands lingered on hers as he let go, and she had a sudden insight. The only way he got to touch anyone was with violence or lust. She remembered an old article in a women's magazine about 'skin hunger,' a human's need to feel the closeness of another person. She thought of how long it had taken him to relax that night on the couch. And she thought just a little of how much she missed Henry.

"Spike?"

"Yeah?" He sounded tired.

She had no idea of what she could propose. She certainly couldn't just tell him he had a need she could meet, or that she wanted to hold him a little longer. "Um, come in the house with me? We can sit on the couch and watch a movie or something."

"Yeah, all right," he agreed, but she could hear puzzlement in his tone. He's trying to figure out my motives, she thought, so his next words caught her by surprise.

"When did Buffy talk to you about me?" he asked. She could feel the intensity of his eyes even before she looked up at him. He continued slowly, "You've barely met each other."

Sally willed herself not to look away from him, not to give anything away. She hadn't known, then. "The night we left Cleveland, Buffy and I went for walk together. I stuck my nose in where it wasn't wanted." She shrugged and turned away, heading outside, but he caught her arm.

"What did you talk about?"

She made a conscious decision and again covered his hand with hers. "Angel checked into our hotel looking lower than he did when I first met y'all in Los Angeles. Then you came in, honey, drunk as a skunk. It was pretty easy to figure out the common denominator. So, when we went to Mr. Giles' the next day, I asked her to take a walk with me." Sally turned a bit more toward him. "I liked Buffy when I met her, Spike. And I really liked my new friends, the only ones I've made in years. I saw three miserable people, and I told her what I thought."

"Which was?"

"That it would be better for one person to be miserable, and two to be happy." Spike abruptly let go of her arm. She made a defensive gesture. "Buffy told me it was none of my business, that I didn't understand, and I… have to agree with her."

"What else?"

She stood a little taller. "It was a talk between two women, Spike. There were more words said, but that's the upshot."

He was silent for a long time. "Did she…" His words died away as the sound of the gate opening carried into the barn. Angel had returned. Spike made an impatient noise.

"You coming in?" Sally asked, knowing the answer. Her voice was cool.

"No. Think I'll pass on the movie."

"All right."

He watched her walk away. She was protecting Buffy, because if he knew the Slayer, she had done more than tell Sally it was none of her business. He listened to Sally greet Angel, to the other man's laughing response. She was probably protecting herself, too. But he couldn't help but think that right after that conversation, Buffy had invited him to go upstairs with her. She had chosen him. He let his head fall back. For all the good it had done, she had chosen him.

Another opportunity lost.

⸹

Angel stuck his head past the kitchen door and craned his neck toward the motor pool, peering through the screens that enclosed the porch. After a good ten minutes of cranking – about which he made a note to tease Spike – the motorcycle engine had finally caught. The door to the building didn't open, though, so after a short wait, he turned back inside.

Sally was standing behind him. "He did it," she said, sounding impressed.

"Took him long enough," Angel replied, stepping past her and returning to the kitchen table, where a book and a cup awaited his return. "He dashed out there under a blanket three hours ago."

"That engine hasn't turned over since," Sally paused, looking up at the ceiling and trying to remember, "I don't know, the first Reagan administration? Getting it to run, that's like a minor miracle. He did a good job."

Angel grunted, not feeling generous enough to praise the other man. He looked up from his book at Sally, who was chuckling, his eyebrows raised. "What?"

"Honey, the way you two get along, you might as well be brothers."

"We're not." They had been family, though, and the impulse to take the younger vampire in an embrace was there as often as the urge to hurt him.

"Did you have any brothers, Angel?" Sally slid into the chair opposite him.

He lay the book facedown on the table, staring at the spine. "A sister."

"Just the one?" At his nod, she continued. "Me, too. Just a brother, I mean."

"Your brother died at Normandy, right?"

Sally nodded, turning her head toward the door as the sound of the motorcycle engine died. They faintly heard Spike say, "Yeah. Showed you who's…" before the motor blatted to life again.

"Uh-huh. He's buried over there. I don't know if Roger really wanted to march off to war. He didn't, not the way Henry did. I've still got the letters he wrote from the army. Funny, I was sure that Henry was going to die fighting the war, but I never even considered that Roger would."

"Was he older than you?"

"No, a year younger. There's nothing more miserable for a guy than having an older sister. I was always so bossy and mean to him, at least until I became a teenager."

"My sister Kathy was six years younger than me."

"Was she ever mean to you?"

"No. She was my little princess. She thought I could do no wrong. I thought pretty much the same," he added, wryly.

"Works better when there's more of an age difference, I think."

"She was such an adorable little thing, all dark hair and big eyes." Angel smiled in remembrance. "I would have made life miserable for Kathy's beaus if she'd lived to –" He stopped abruptly.

"She died young?" Sally asked sympathetically, stretching her arm across the table to lay a cool hand over his.

Angel swallowed, then met her eyes after a moment in lieu of a reply. Her eyes widened in comprehension. He started to pull his hand away, to leave the table, but she clasped her strong fingers over his.

"I'm sorry, Angel," she said, and left it at that.

He nodded, looking away, thinking of the wonder on his sister's innocent face as she invited an angel into the house. "Of the things I've done, things far more evil," he said thickly, "that's one that haunts me."

Sally stretched across the table to put her other hand on his cheek. "I'm proud to know you, Angel."

He gave a short, harsh laugh. "Why?"

"With the weight of all that, you still try to make a difference."

"I don't know if I do."

"Honey, you try."

He met her level gaze again. "You know," he said slowly, "I can't imagine you being mean to Roger."

She nodded and smiled a little, dropping her hand from his face. "Must be the age difference."

"Tires are shot," Spike said from the doorway.

Angel looked over at the blond man, who stood on the other side of the screen with the blanket clutched in his hands. He didn't remember hearing the engine shut off. Sally gave his fingers a last squeeze, then stood from the table.

"Dry rot?" she asked Spike, bustling over to hold the screen door for him. "I should have thought of that. We'll get a new set tomorrow… then you can start on the Ducati."

⸹

Spike knocked on the door. "Aren't you done?"

"I'm shaving," Angel replied carefully, working on his upper lip.

"Well, if that's all," Spike said. He came into the steamy bathroom as if Angel had issued an invitation and began running his own shower, testing the water with his arm to gauge the temperature. Then he turned to watch. "You should have asked me."

"Didn't think to. Did I get it all?" Angel asked, turning toward the other man.

Spike regarded him critically. "Give it here," he said, holding out his left hand for the razor. He maneuvered the blade around his grandsire's chin. There was nothing self-conscious in the act; this was something they had done for each other for years, both of them better at the masculine ritual than either of their ladies. "There you go; Bob's your uncle." He handed the razor back over.

Angel felt his smooth face. "Thanks." He put out his hand and cradled Spike's chin. "What about you?" Vampires didn't grow hair quickly, but it did grow, one of those odd quirks that remained after the change.

"Dunno." He shrugged, touching his chin. "Can probably go a while longer."

He considered the boy's sculpted face, testing the smoothness of the skin with his thumb. The blue eyes gazed at him patiently. Angel was suddenly very aware that Spike was shirtless, that he was wearing nothing more than a damp towel himself, low around his hips.

Sensing his change in mood, Spike twisted away. "Hands off, perv." He turned toward the shower, not bothered by what was a natural reaction between two of their kind. "Not quite that desperate."

"Apparently I am," Angel growled, angry with himself. He oriented himself toward the sink so he couldn't see the other man and began to rinse the razor. He remembered how he'd explained vampirism to the boy all those years ago: feeding, fighting, and fucking, the three f's. He gritted his teeth. It would be good to get away for a while.

⸹

"Drive carefully," Sally admonished. "It's Friday night; there'll be a lot of people out."

"I can do that," Angel agreed, looking up at her as she stood by the car window.

"You have the atlas and the directions?"

"Yeah."

"Do you think it's anything dangerous?" she asked.

He shrugged. "Rupert didn't say that it was something he wanted us to protect, just that it was something we would want to see. I doubt it's dangerous."

"Okay. Well, drive carefully, then."

"You said that."

She rolled her eyes. "Yes, I did. Sorry. Here, give us a hug, and I'll let you go." Sally leaned through the window and got her hug. She stepped back as Angel put the Mustang in gear and watched the taillights retreat down the driveway.

Frowning, she turned back to the house. She was restless. Part of her wished she could have gone with Angel, but she knew he needed time alone. Sally looked at the house, practically feeling the moodiness that was coming off Spike in waves. She had seen right away that Angel was the classic still-waters-run-deep type, but the bright sparkle of Spike's personality had treacherous rapids around every bend.

Sally rolled her eyes again at her simile. She needed to get out for a while, too, get away from the house. Hell with it, she thought, and marched back into the house. A few minutes later, she popped her head into the living room. The blond man sat on the couch, using the remote to change channels at roughly the rate of four per second.

"Hey. Want to come to town with me? I'm in the mood to go drinking."

He shrugged. "I'm not."

"See you, then."

He looked up in surprise, but she had already turned away, and he only got a glimpse of her. It was enough to make Spike vault over the couch. He caught up with her in the kitchen, grabbing her arm. He raked his eyes over her, from the white cowboy hat perched on her red hair to the fancy cowboy boots on her feet. "You're going alone?"

"Yes." The schoolmarm voice had returned.

He stared at the silver belt buckle at her waist. "What are you wearing?"

"Same thing I always do," she said, her tone still very patient. "Jeans, tank top… industrial strength bra." He could just see her eyes narrow beneath the brim of the hat with the last words.

He met her glare and raised an eyebrow. "That's bloody well not the same thing you always wear."

"Yes, it is. Technically, it's even more than usual. You should approve."

"Oh, I do." He held her arm away from her body and looked her up and down again. He moved further into her personal space and peered closely at her. "Is that… lip gloss?"

"Lipstick is hard with no reflection."

His eyebrows rose at her defensive tone. "I didn't know you owned makeup."

Sally snatched her arm away and turned to the door. "I'll be back before sunrise."

"You don't even have your purse."

"I've got everything I need right here," she said, patting the front pocket of her jeans without turning back. The screen door slammed behind her.

Spike growled at her retreating back, unable to disagree with that statement. Without that annoying flannel shirt… He stood indecisively for a moment under the kitchen lights, then strode toward his bedroom to get his boots. He caught up with her again as she finished opening the shed doors so she could drive the truck out.

"I thought you weren't in the mood."

"It's your mood I'm wondering about." She got into the truck without responding. Mumbling something filthy under his breath, Spike took the passenger seat. Sally was shuffling through a stack of CDs. "So, what is this mood, anyway?"

She met his eyes and held up the CD she'd chosen. Before the dome light dimmed, he saw what was printed on it: WHY THE HELL NOT? She slid the disc into the player, pulled the truck forward, and got out to close the garage doors. Spike took advantage of the time alone to do up his boots and run a hand across his still-damp hair. AC/DC was singing about "Dirty Deeds" before Sally was behind the wheel again.

"What brought this on?" he asked.

She looked down the driveway and past the reach of the headlights, always the careful driver. When they were at the end of the gravel drive, she asked, "Would you open the gate?" He did so, and waited so that he could close it behind them. After he was back in the passenger seat, she finally answered. "I don't know, Spike. I feel cooped up, I guess. I love you guys and all, but y'all are moody as hell. I just want to hear people laughing, music, maybe dance a few times. Uncomplicated things." Sally sighed and took off her hat, laying it in the seat between them. She looked either direction and pulled onto the road. Her hair, for a change, was not pulled into a ponytail, and she looked more generic to Spike, less like herself and more like other women.

"Do you… go out drinking often?"

She shot him a disbelieving look. "What do you think? A trip to the Wal-Mart Supercenter is usually enough for my society fix. Tonight, it's gonna take liquor and line-dancing with a bunch of good ole boys and girls. I want to feel… I don't know. Young. Have a couple of drinks, dance a little. I haven't been out on a Friday night for years and years. Don't you ever feel like just cuttin' loose?"

"Things get dangerous when I cut loose, Tolliver."

She rolled her eyes. "Well, don't you ever feel like connecting with other people?"

 _Like Angel?_ He bit down on his first, sarcastic response. Spike looked down and noticed that his hands were clenched into fists. He forced them to relax. This irrational possessiveness, rekindled when he saw her comforting Angel at the kitchen table, had to end. "So, where're you taking us?"

"A tonk out on Route Twenty-three," she said. "It's been there for years, just changes management every so often. Henry and I went there until the early eighties, when they did this really sad Gilley's thing with it."

"A honky-tonk?" He made a face. "With country music?"

"This is rural North Carolina, city boy. Work with what you got." After a moment, she added. "It won't be all overprocessed Nashville crap. There'll be Southern rock, too." The next song on the CD came up, the Ramones' "I Wanna Be Sedated."

"It won't be as good as what you've got here in the truck," he pointed out.

"I'm not taking you back to the house."

"I didn't ask!"

"Then stop complaining!"

After a tense silence that easily outlasted the length of a Ramones song, Sally took a deep breath. "How'd we get here, honey?" Her voice was weary. "Let's start over." She glanced at him. "Spike, would you like to get out of the house and join me for a few beers at one of North Carolina's finest drinking establishments?"

"Yes, Sally, I would love to join you for a night of revelry."

"Did you just break your jaw saying that?"

He clenched his teeth even tighter. "I thought you wanted to start over."

"You're the one with the bug up his butt."

He laughed; he couldn't help it. "That has to be the stupidest expression I've ever heard."

She grinned reluctantly. "Honey, you ain't been in the South nearly long enough to make up your mind about what's a stupid saying."

"There's worse?"

"Well, butter my butt and call me a biscuit," she drawled. "How's that?"

"What does that even mean?"

"It means, huh, how 'bout that? I'm surprised."

"There's always the literal interpretation," he suggested. Why the hell not, indeed.

"Hotter than a goat's butt in a pepper patch," Sally said, after a moment of ignoring him. Jane's Addiction's "Been Caught Stealin'" kicked in.

"I'm noticing a certain preoccupation with butts."

"Let me think of a few more, and you'll really be ready for the drinkin' part of the evening."

⸹

Angel drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. He was early, but he enjoyed driving the Mustang and felt it was unfair not to give the fine machine the speed it was made for. There were a few other cars parked in the stadium parking lot, but he hadn't seen anything move except a campus patrol car that prowled past. Sally had been right; there was no way you could miss the stadium. He glanced up at the huge shadow of it hulking over him. Football must be a big thing in Knoxville. An unbroken stream of cars was zooming past on the main drag, but none of them turned onto the roads that led to the stadium.

After another five minutes, he got out of the car and stretched his legs. Heat still radiated from the concrete from a long afternoon of baking under the summer sun. He watched a car slow and turn toward the stadium, its lights sweeping along the empty rows. Angel stood as conspicuously as possible, and the hatchback's driver spotted him and pulled into a space a few slots away from him. A young woman with short red hair got out of the car, which was packed with what looked like enough luggage for a trip around the world, and looked him over. She didn't come any closer or say anything, and Angel wondered if she expected him to give a password.

"How was Giles when you left?" he said, by way of establishing that he was one of the good guys.

Her face cleared. "So, you're Buffy's Angel."

He shook his head, bemused. "I'm Angel."

"I'm Vi. Cool car," she said, and reached back into her own for a manila envelope. "Here you go."

He took it, running a thumb over what felt like a thin sheaf of papers. "Thanks for bringing it."

She gave him an impish grin. "No problem. I was sorry to have missed your visit last month." She looked around. "Well, I want to get through Atlanta and into Florida before sunrise."

"You'd better be on your way, then," he agreed. "Nice to meet you, Vi."

"You, too. Say hi to Spike for me."

"Vi, wait. There's a police car turning this way. Do you mind stepping a little closer?" Angel asked. She did so hesitantly, and while she approached, he tossed the envelope through the open window of the Mustang. "Why don't you give me a goodbye hug, Vi?" Her eyes narrowed a bit. "I really don't want to talk to the nice police officers tonight," he explained.

"All right," she said, and there was a certain wary amusement in her voice that made him think of both Buffy and Faith. Maybe there was a special Slayer tone of voice to go along with the strength and agility. He pulled her close to him and lowered his head until he rested his forehead against hers. "This feels really strange," Vi admitted.

"I appreciate it, though," he said, listening to the patrol car slow. His eyes on the police vehicle, he nuzzled the side of her neck and felt her stiffen. "Sorry." He released her from his arms, but kept her hand in his. "Let me walk you to your car."

"They're moving away now," she said, relief in her voice.

"Thank you, again, Vi," he said, including opening the car door for her in his politeness.

She got in and looked up at him before closing the door. "You're quite welcome." He lifted his hand to wave goodbye, then went back to the Mustang. He clearly heard her mutter, "Maybe Buffy's not so crazy after all," before she started her engine.

Grinning, Angel started his own engine and followed Vi's hatchback out of the lot. He got caught by a traffic light that she'd already zipped through, so he picked up the envelope and glanced at the papers inside. He stared at them for a moment, dumbstruck, then laughed and threw the envelope into the back seat like the trash it was. Well, the trip wasn't a total waste. He'd met a pretty cool slayer, and he had gotten to drive a really great car. He was having more fun than his housemates, anyway.

⸹

"You're a good dancer," Sally said, sounding impressed as they left the dance floor and headed back to the bar.

"I'm not," he disagreed. "Once I saw the level of competition, though… These people are still doing the same basic steps I learned as a lad."

"Most of us around here have ancestors from your neck of the woods. Maybe it's genetic," Sally suggested. She bought this round of beers, as Spike had paid the cover charge. "You know what's really neat?" she asked, as they waited.

"What?"

"That we're the only two people here who can carry on a conversation," she said smugly. The noise level was ferocious, but no match for their hearing.

"Yeah, that is neat," he agreed. The bartender, a stout woman who looked to be fifty-going-on-twenty, thumped two mugs down on the counter in front of them. "You want to go to the billiards room, play a round?"

Sally shrugged. "Sure, if you don't mind my complete lack of ability."

"Really? Want to play for, say, ten dollars a ball?"

"You're not that cute, honey, and I'm not that dumb. If you win, I'll be the designated driver and give you a ride home."

They picked their way around the couples dancing on the small floor on their way to the pool tables. "Almost stopped dancing when disco got big," Spike said, eying the boot-scootin' with a jaundiced eye. "This sort of stuff I can do – though I can't think of why I'd want to – but I just couldn't do bleedin' disco." He shuddered. "Was in New York a lot in the seventies and early eighties. It would have put a bit of a cramp in my social life, not everyone in the clubs been high as the moon."

Sally gave him an odd look. "I saw "Taxi Driver" and decided then and there I never wanted to go to New York. Too scary. Plus Henry and I never scheduled runs up that way. Again, too scary."

He looked down at her for a second, confused, then his brow cleared. "Oh, right. Organized crime, mafia, whatnot. Well, it was the time and place to be a vampire. Something interesting was always afoot, fed well, and I never knew what kind of contact high I would have afterwards. Most nights, I wasn't even the strangest thing in the room. Listen," he said, touching her arm. The Rolling Stones' version of "Honky Tonk Women" was playing on the jukebox, and a smile took the corner of his mouth. "I'm sure Keith," he pronounced it soft, 'Keef,' "wouldn't remember me, but Mick might," he mused. "That's what New York was like for me in the seventies. Knew all the musicians in the city, seemed."

"You met Keith Richards and Mick Jagger?" she asked skeptically.

"Hung out with them. Mostly Mick, but I got Charlie Watts to laugh out loud once. We were all just blokes far from Queen and country, right?"

"Did they know you were…" she trailed off and flashed her teeth at him.

He shrugged. "Dunno. Maybe. There were vampires who were pretty open about it. Lot of humans like to be fed on; it's just another decadent way to get one's rocks off. Not for me – I liked the kill too much – but I honestly can't remember half of what I did there, who might have seen me."

"So you didn't dance, but you didn't mind because of all the juicy, stoned people?"

"Oh, I danced. CBGB was open, right?" He gave her a grin that had persuaded nuns to lose their knickers. Angel's idea, that. "Slam dancing. Now, that's a contact sport."

"I thought that was a grunge thing."

"No, pet. That's punk all the way." He lifted two cues from a rack on the wall. "I'm surprised you didn't know that, what with your taste in music." They headed toward an open table.

Sally shook her head. "It's the music, not the lifestyle. Every thirty years or so, I just get sick of whatever I've been listening to and want to hear something new. I'll live out a full and happy life, so to speak, if I never hear another Lennon Sisters or Conway Twitty tune again. Maybe in 2010 I'll get into classical, sophisticated stuff," she said, rolling her eyes at the thought. She grabbed the triangle and began to set up the table.

He leaned close to her, putting his mouth next to her ear. "If you do that, you won't get first crack at my balls."

Sally gave the triangle a final, brisk shake, the solids and stripes giving a single click. She turned, an eyebrow raised in warning, then grinned. "Your balls?" He remembered this tone of voice from the morning she'd asked him if he was a famous lover, but there was no Angel to amuse now. She closed the space between them and looked up until she could see past the brim of the hat, see his eyes. "If I don't get a shot, I guess you'll just have to play with them all by yourself."

He didn't hesitate. "Watch me play with them, Tolliver. I'm so talented with this stick," he murmured, leaving the cue where it was and swaying toward her so his hips rested against her belly for a brief second, "that you'll be on your knees in awe before me."

Watching her face over the next few seconds was an education. Her lips parted, and, even without using any of his demon-enhanced senses, he knew from her stunned expression that he had seduced her. Spike remembered forcefully why they had called a mutual halt to this kind of play. So obvious, suddenly, why she didn't touch him the way she casually hugged Angel. He watched her expression edge back to something more normal, her lips firm, and a dozen thoughts race past her eyes before she settled on one.

"I doubt it. I grew up in the Great Depression, and I'm used to poor boys."

This was such an odd statement that he had to ask. "What does that mean?"

She edged away from him, not answering until she was at the corner of the table. "Poor boys can't afford any other toys to play with, so they play with themselves. They always end up with big dicks." Sally lowered her head, but he saw a smile curve her cheek beneath her hat.

Surprised, he laughed, impressed at how she acknowledged their attraction, yet pulled them back from a border neither was comfortable crossing. He walked around the opposite side and carefully placed the cue ball. He leaned over the table, then sent Sally a deliberate look. "You grew up poor, Tolliver. What did you play with?" He dropped his eyes to her chest, giving her a wicked grin, and it was her turn to laugh. This banter might be risqué, but it wasn't dangerous anymore. Spike broke, dropping two solids. He nearly ran the table before Sally got a chance to take up her cue.

She didn't say anything about her turn with the balls, but gave him a shrewd look. "No wonder you wanted to play for money. I'll go ahead and concede: you can have a ride home." She scanned the table and chose the easiest shot, dropping the eleven ball in a corner pocket. Looking over the choices again, she pushed her hat back a bit and leaned far over the surface, bracing one hand on the table as she lined up.

"Hey!" Sally cried in protest. Someone grabbed her bottom hard, causing her to miss so badly that she scraped the nap of the felt. "You ruined my shot!" She whipped around, glaring, but was flummoxed to find that it wasn't Spike behind her.

"Sorry about that, little girl," a tall, burly man said in mock apology. "I could never resist a redhead with an ass like that." He touched the brim of his cowboy hat and grinned down at her. "And the front don't stop, either. Say, I've checked out the chassis, but what do you look like under the hood?" He reached for her hat, but jerked back as the end of a pool cue sliced through the air and came to a stop inches from his nose. The tip didn't waver.

"As I brought the lady," Spike drawled, "if anyone gets to grab her ass, it'll be me." He ignored Sally, who was now sparing a part of her glare for him, and met the other man's eyes.

The stranger looked delighted, and shifted his hat back on his head. "Well! You ain't from these parts, are you?" Spike brought the pool cue upright and let it slide along his palm until he was holding it normally. The local boy looked from his eyes to his hands, then whistled. "Look at that purty nail polish!"

Spike picked up his mug and walked carelessly past the other man, having to look up a few inches as he passed, an insolent grin on his face. He handed Sally his cue without comment, meeting her warning look squarely. He lifted his beer halfway to his lips.

"Y'all having a girls' night out? You gonna –"

Spike's eyes never left Sally's as his hand snaked out and slammed the man's head down onto the edge of the pool table, pinning him there. The blond vampire scoffed, his lip curling, then finished lifting his drink to his mouth and quaffed the whole thing. He thumped the mug down close by the human's nose, then shoved him away from the table. Spike turned his back on Sally, focusing on his challenger.

"Right." The other man had staggered away a couple of steps, rubbing his neck. "You've got my full attention now. Here I am, definitely not from around here, wearing paint on my nails." He waggled his fingers at the man and leaned his torso away, like a snake preparing to strike. Sally noticed that he had cut her out of their conflict completely. "What are you going to do about it?"

"You're dead, Dye-job," Local Boy snarled, coming at him with a roundhouse punch.

Spike took the time to scoff again and throw a can-you-believe-this-guy? look at Sally before he ducked the inefficient blow. He dodged a couple more slow punches, and finally started just slapping them away. "Come on! Hit me! Who's s'posed to be the nancy-boy here?" He knocked Local Boy's cowboy hat onto the floor.

Two men pushed their way through the crowd that had gathered to watch, and they grabbed Spike's arms, pinning him between them. "Now we're getting somewhere!" Spike smiled at Local Boy as he charged, now that it was safe. "And here I thought you didn't have friends."

The vampire took the blow across the face. It only made his grin widen. Spike swung one of the friends into the path of the next punch, then got the other one by the neck, holding the hunched-over man under his right arm as he lashed out with his left. "Oh, bloody hell!" he roared with frustration, as the free friend's eyes glazed over, knees buckling as he dropped to the floor. "You keep friends who can't fight any better than this?" At this point, a fourth man introduced himself to the fray by smashing a chair over Spike's head. It drove the vampire to his knees, which had the unintended effect of knocking out the man Spike had in a hold, as his head bounced against the floor.

Spike left him where he lay and rose in a fluid, graceful movement, shooting a grin at Sally. She shook her head. How could someone swagger as they got up off the floor? He looked at the two men who still stood, one in front of him and one behind, then laughed from the sheer joy of the fight.

"Hold 'im, Rich!" Local Boy said, sounding unnerved. Spike stood still while Rich rushed toward him, then shook his head and lifted a lazy-seeming backfist for the man to run into. Rich dropped like a stone, toppling bonelessly onto the legs of the other two men.

"All out of friends, are we?" Spike asked gently. He stepped close enough to Local Boy that he had to look up, but the other man didn't move, didn't hardly breathe. "Here's your lesson for the day: you can't always spot the Big Bad." He blew a kiss at Local Boy, knowing it would push all his buttons.

Incoherent with rage, the man made a snarling sound and lunged for Spike's neck with both hands. Spike let him grab on, then threw his forearm across the beefy arms, pushing them sharply downward and spinning him to the side. He brought his elbow back up, across Local Boy's jaw. The man collapsed on top of the neat little pile of his friends.

The watching crowd gave a smattering of applause for his performance, but they were interrupted by the woman who was tending bar. "Somebody's paying for that chair." She stood glowering at Spike with her arms folded.

"Of course, dear lady," he said politely. He grabbed Local Boy by a belt loop and lifted him from the heap to better reach his wallet. Pulling out a few bills, he pressed them into the bartender's fist, then tossed the wallet indifferently over his shoulder. Spike turned to Sally and held out his hand.

She looked at him for a long moment, then put down the two pool cues she was still holding. There was a gleam in her eye, but she took his arm. He tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow and led her out of the bar. When they got out to the parking lot, Spike let go of her and stretched his arms wide, as if embracing the night. "Now, that was more like it," he said.

"Showy," Sally said. She was attempting the schoolmarm, but there was too much amusement lurking in her voice to pull it off.

He grabbed her around the waist and spun her in a circle. "I barely touched them," he said, unconcerned, and pushed the brim of her hat toward her nose. Sally staggered a little when he let go. "Saved the world, and I still get into bar fights!" he crowed.

"I'm glad you got to blow off a little steam," Sally said, pulling the keys from her pocket, "but I could have handled it without attracting quite that much attention."

"You'd already attracted too much attention," he admonished. "'Sides, what would you do, ask him to please not do that?"

"No. He looked like a Cox, right?"

"Yeah, he was a wanker, all right," Spike agreed.

"He was from the Cox family," Sally tried again, stopping at the end of her truck and facing Spike. "I'm pretty sure I went to school with his grandmother. I would have said that I was going to tell his granny on him, the next time I was leading Bible study at the nursing home, that it'd just break her heart to hear how he was assaulting good Christian women."

"Good Christian women go to bars on Friday night?"

"Sometimes," Sally said defensively. Then she shrugged. "He would have slunk off with his tail between his legs hours before he figured that out."

"Ooh," Spike said, waggling his fingers in the air, "brutal."

Sally gave up and smiled at him. "I need to tether you like a balloon, honey, or you're going to float right off." She added with a grudging look of admiration, "That was really masterful, Spike. You could have crushed them like, no, not even walnuts. Peanuts. Styrofoam peanuts. It was a pleasure to watch you."

Arrested, he stared at her. "You're not mad that I didn't play nice with the other kiddies?"

She shrugged. "I hate to tell you this, but that's what we do for fun in the South on a Friday night. Must be the lack of opera houses. Face it, you're a good ole boy. Those guys were, too… just not as good."

"So," he said, moving close to her and jamming his hands into his back pockets. "You thought I was masterful?"

She turned away from him to hide another smile, opening the driver's side door. "You're way too much man for me." Sally tossed her hat onto the seat.

He was behind her suddenly, executing a move perfected by decades of practice, one hand on her cheek, the other flat against her torso, holding her in place. Instead of pushing her jaw away, exposing her neck, he lifted her chin and stared down at her. They were both facing into the truck's interior, the tall door hiding them from casual onlookers. "Try me on for size, pet," he suggested, and lowered his face to hers. He felt her go up on tiptoe, bringing her mouth to his, her eyes closed. His weren't, and he watched her.

Their kiss was better than it should have been, from starting at such an awkward angle. He sensed an unsettling amount of tenderness in it, as well as her need. Spike thought again of the theme of the evening: why the hell not? And Angel wasn't here for her to hug. He pressed his body closer to hers, pushing her against the truck frame, and let his hand drift down her neck and over the generous curve of one breast. Might as well have a memory of what she felt like. She'd pull them back from the edge again, if it seemed things were going too far.

Sally moaned against his mouth, and Spike froze, then lifted his head, eyebrows drawn together in disbelief. He looked down at her, seeing a look almost of pain on her face. Her eyes were still closed. Sure that he must have misunderstood, he slid his other hand down from where it rested against her belt buckle, pulling her body closer. Then he splayed his fingers across her breast once again, rubbing his palm against the hardness of her nipple through the matronly bra.

This time there was no mistaking it, and Spike realized they had already crossed a border. Female vampires were easy to please, but this… He felt her shudder and watched her clench her teeth, biting down on a second moan. Watching her come was almost too much for him. Spike lifted his hands from her body and placed them carefully on her shoulders. He felt the wide straps of her bra beneath his fingers, felt her tremble a tiny bit, like an aftershock.

Sally took a breath, then turned toward him. She looked up for a fleeting second, bit her lip, and smiled apologetically. Staring at his chest, she put her hands on his waist, then slid her fingers between them, touching the buckle of his belt. She was going to return the favor, he realized, and he grabbed her hands.

"No. I can wait for the real thing," he said. This, finally, caused him to close his eyes in consternation. He lifted her hands to his shoulders and let go. Because she slid them around his neck instead of pushing him away, he took what he had claimed from Local Boy and ran his hands down her back to fondle her bum. He had been celibate a long time, and this was heaven. She felt nothing like Dru, or Harmony, or… Spike nuzzled her temple, coaxing her into kissing him again. Then he pulled her hips against his, wanting her to have full knowledge of how arousing he found her sexual responsiveness. He moved against her slightly, experimentally.

Sally's head fell back, and he followed it, keeping his mouth on hers, anticipating her this time and pulling the sound of her pleasure into his body. She nipped at his lower lip, and then jerked away from him. Spike jumped, too. Someone had set off a car alarm nearby.

"We're in a bleeding car park," he growled, looking around, dazed.

Sally leaned against the seat for support, her eyes wide and stunned, looking at anything except him. She swallowed, giving her head a small shake. "Um, ready to go?" she asked.

"Yeah," he answered roughly. She turned and climbed into the truck, moving as if against a current in the air. Spike closed her door and took several deep breaths, waiting until the car alarm cut off before he walked around the truck and got in. He looked at Sally across the expanse of the bench seat, at her hat resting between them, the way her hands were clenched on the wheel. She started the truck and turned to look out the rear window before backing out. The routine task seemed to shake her out of her reverie, because her motions became more brisk.

She felt his eyes lingering on her, knew he was waiting for her to break the silence. "I'm sorry, Spike. I didn't mean for… I didn't know that would…" Sally drew in a deep breath and tried again. "It wasn't to put any pressure on you."

His brows drew together at that, but there was something else on his mind. "How long…?"

Her mouth curved as she continued to stare out at the road. "Since the kittens, when Jim brought us the kittens. You were so sweet, trying to get Angel to loosen up, growling at that little tabby. That's when I first thought," she stopped for a moment, then made herself say it, "when I knew that I wanted you… that way. That was… It scared me. I would never have done anything about it."

Spike's lips parted, and he didn't say anything for a moment. "No. I mean, how long has it been since you…?"

"Oh!" She gave a little laugh. "I don't know. Um… eight years?" She thought about it. "Over nine years. I didn't mark it on the calendar or anything. I didn't know. You always think there will be a next time, huh?"

He felt the muscles in his abdomen knot. Nine years. "Are you… is it always like that?" He was so attuned to her, he could feel her blush. God, it had been so long since he'd been with anyone, but nine years….

"What I told you that morning in the kitchen was true," she said simply. "But, no, honey, never like that. I may have a soft squeeze, but you've filed me down to a hair trigger."

Spike knew enough about guns to get the analogy. "Sally," he breathed, "you're killing me."

"Not likely." The corner of her mouth curved again.

"When we get home, love," he said, his voice full of dark promise as he carried on with the gun analogy, "we'll fire –"

"Nothing is going to happen when we get home," she interrupted, her voice no longer husky. "'Don't act on it,' remember? Nothing has changed, Spike."

"Nothing has… it bloody well has!"

"Not for me. I told you, I don't know how to… be casual about this."

"There won't be anything casual about it, I promise you." His voice changed, became more intimate. Sex, a central part of his existence since Dru sired him, was on the menu once again. "Haven't you ever wondered what it would be like with another vampire? We've got strength, none of the metabolic limitations–"

"I've thought about what it would be like with you, Spike."

"I love your honesty," he said, his voice dark as chocolate and twice as tempting. Not about being ahead of Angel, for once. Not at all.

Her movements suddenly angry, Sally pulled the truck onto the shoulder and turned off the engine. She leaned over the steering wheel for a moment, the muscles along her jaw flexing, then she turned to face him. "Don't. Spike, I _can't_." She looked down, not wanting to see how still his face had become.

"I'm pretty sure you would have in the bleeding parking lot, Sally. You were gagging for it." His tone was harsh as well.

Her eyes flashed dangerously. "Don't be so sure. There would have been something, but not that. Back there, that was just so… unexpected. Honey, you're just sex on a stick, and I…" She looked at the cab ceiling, searching for words, and her voice was weary when she continued. "I know this is probably just because we're both vampires. It's not sex to me, Spike, it's intimacy. I share my body, I share my life. The only time I've done this, we spent over sixty years together, continuously, exclusively, till death did us part. I can't ask that of you."

He leaned toward her. "I'm inches from heaven, Sally, and you're telling me I can't go in. How can you ask _that_ of me?"

She recoiled, and he saw the hurt beneath the anger on her face. "That wasn't fair."

He sighed and let his head fall back. He'd known exactly what he was saying. "No. That was… certain parts of me talking. It's been a while." He grimaced; his soul had just sent him a shredding dose of guilt for that one.

It took a lot to break through her innate Southern politeness, but he had done it. "Even if I were a complete slut, Spike, I still wouldn't be dumb enough to sleep with a man in love with somebody else."

He roared in frustration. "Bloody women!" He forced his hands to unclench before he continued. "Yes, I will always love Buffy. There's a small, insane part of me that will always love Drusilla, if it comes to it. But they are in the past, Sally." Even he knew better than to mention that he had slept with other women since giving the Slayer his heart. "Don't use them as an excuse."

"Since when is Buffy in your past? I saw you in Cleveland, saw how you–"

"In Cleveland, Buffy and I…" He looked out the side window. "Women don't end up with men who – There isn't going to be a happily ever after with Buffy. We at least tried, and I can live with that."

Sally finally broke the silence. "I'm sorry."

He turned to glare at her, the genuine compassion in her voice infuriating him for some reason. "Thanks ever so."

"Oh, crud." Sally was looking in the rear view mirror. "Don't make any sudden moves," she warned.

"What?"

"You lived in Los Angeles," she said with asperity, "and you didn't learn to not make any motion the nice police officers might misunderstand?" He looked around and caught a brilliant spotlight in the face as the cop who had pulled in behind them shone it into the truck. He hadn't even noticed.

Sally waited until the policeman came to her window before she turned the key to roll it down. "Officer," she greeted him politely.

He pointed his flashlight at her chin. "You folks having car trouble?"

"No, sir, everything's fine. We were having… a conversation, and I thought it'd be better to pull over rather than try to drive at the same time."

The policeman aimed the flashlight at Spike, who gave him a very tight smile. "Y'all been drinking?"

"No, sir," Sally lied. Spike raised an eyebrow.

"License and registration, please."

Sally lifted her hips from the seat and wriggled her fingers into her jeans pocket. "Do you mind?" she asked Spike, giving a significant look at the glove compartment. She fished her driver's license from her front pocket and passed that through the window, then took the registration from Spike's hand and offered it, too. The officer took the paperwork back to his cruiser.

"You lied to the policeman," Spike said, his voice pitched for Sally's benefit only. "You're human, after all."

She gave him a mean look. "Exactly how much more complicated do you think I want this night to be?"

"I've never known you to lie, not since we all came clean about who and what we are."

"I don't lie to you."

He shook his head and gave a short laugh. "No, no, you don't." He glanced over at her, his eyes narrowing. "Although you don't tell me everything."

"What?"

He wanted to say that she hadn't told him she had a hair trigger, but since he couldn't say that, he brought up something else. "You didn't tell me everything you and Buffy talked about in Cleveland."

Sally twisted in the driver's seat to face him again, her mouth tight with anger. "Fine. You wanna know everything I told her, fine. I told her it would be better if she chose one of you, and I recommended Angel. There. The whole truth."

Spike looked out of the windshield into the darkness, his jaw set. Bloody Angel. Then he shot her a shrewd sidelong look. "She could have him, because it was me you wanted."

"No!" She closed her eyes for a moment, then met his gaze flatly. "I didn't talk to her out of selfishness, Spike. I'd known you for less than a week. I… It just hurt, watching you three. Angel talked to Buffy, he got sad and moody. You talked to Buffy, you got dog drunk to avoid the pain, you hurt so much." Sally dropped her eyes to his chest. "It doesn't matter, does it? Buffy was right about me being out of line."

"Oh, it mattered. She chose one of us, all right, pet. She chose me. Must have been right after your little talk." Sally looked up at him, and he could see her trying to make sense of the timeline of that night. This time, he looked away. "We gave it a go, but…" Spike's lips tightened for a moment. "Not going to happen. I never really let myself think..." He stopped, then looked back at her. He didn't want to think about that, about how his existence stretched out so empty before him. Anything to avoid that. "There was something else. I know you both, and there was something else said."

"Here's your license –" Sally whirled around to glare through the open window.

"Do you mind?" Spike growled in exasperation.

"… and your registration," the policeman continued, raising an eyebrow. Sally took them, along with a deep breath. The flashlight beam came back into the cab, resting on Spike. "You know," he said slowly, "I thought at first you two were parking."

Sally snorted. "I'm too old to go parking."

The officer, no older than twenty-five, gave the young-looking woman an amused once-over, but his smile faded as he focused on Spike again. "I'm not so sure, now." The blond man looked dangerous, coiled to strike. He brought the beam back to Sally's chin. "Miss, everyone on the force hates being sent out on a domestic violence call. You need me to, I'll nip this in the bud."

Before Spike could get his righteous indignation in gear, Sally turned on the policeman. "There won't be any calls, sir." Her words were polite, but Spike had never heard her sound so furious. She reached across the seat and found his hand. "This is my friend, and I'd trust him with my life. He's a gentleman." Sally squeezed his fingers. "We usually get on like a house on fire. It's just…" She let go of Spike's hand and pressed her palms to her temples for a second. "Some things have changed, things that might lead to a relationship that includes parking," Sally glanced over at Spike and leaned heavily on the next word, "someday." She shook her head. "Officer, I appreciate you stopping, but, honestly, we were just having a… discussion."

"Is that right, sir?" The flashlight focused on Spike again.

"Yeah, pretty much," he agreed, forcing a smile. "I'm learning that getting a good woman is… harder than I thought." He could lean on words, too.

This answer seemed to both satisfy and amuse the policeman. "All right. Well, why don't you save this discussion until after you drive your friend home? The shoulder is for breakdowns, not 'discussions.'"

"Yes," Sally agreed, glancing at the name on his shirt, "Officer Metcalf. Thanks for checking on us."

"Drive safely, ma'am," he said, and with another flick of the flashlight toward Spike, "sir."

Sally powered the window up. "Put your seatbelt on," she reminded him quietly. "I don't think he'll leave until we pull out."

Neither of them spoke. The patrol car followed them for several miles, then turned at an intersection. After another few miles, Sally broke the silence. "I need to stop for gas."

Spike left the truck and walked through the blinding fluorescent lights that lit the fueling islands into the convenient store. He came back outside with two bottles of water just as Sally went in to pay for the gas, so he waited for her by the driver's side door.

"Here," he said simply, handing her the water. "Thought you might be thirsty."

She took it. "Thanks. I am. That was very thoughtful."

He opened the door for her, and gave her a smile that was almost shy. It changed into his usual cheeky grin as Sally angled past him without turning her back. He resumed his seat and took a sip of his own water, trying to sort through what he wanted to say. Her defense of his character had both touched and frightened him. She'd called him a friend and a gentleman, not two words he usually heard, and he wasn't sure he could live up to them, soul or not. But, mostly, she had said that something had changed. He looked over at her as she drove them home.

"Sally," he began, but she cut him off.

"Honestly, Spike," she said, "I don't know what to tell you. Buffy isn't stupid; she thought that I might have an interest in you. The only other thing she said was that she'd kill me if I hurt either of you. Slayer's privilege."

"You've got a soul," he said in protest.

"Yeah, well, she's pretty protective of you guys."

Spike shook his head. "No, that wasn't what I wanted to… Look, you told me nothing had changed, then you told the cop that something had changed. Now, after long experience with women, I've come to accept that I'll never understand you lot. So, spell it out for me."

Sally's brows drew together. "I thought you were… engaged, emotionally. If you really aren't planning to be with her someday, if you both know that… It means you're free. It moves things from 'never' to 'maybe someday.'"

"'Maybe someday' should be tonight, for both our sakes." When she didn't answer, he shook his head. He wanted to lose himself in passion tonight, get away from the rest of his world for hours. His only other option was Angel, and he didn't ever want to go in that snakepit again. "I was with Drusilla for over a hundred years, Sally."

"When you were with her."

His jaw jutted out to a dangerous angle. "When she was with me, Sally. There's a difference."

"You deserved better than that," Sally said grumpily. She had developed a great dislike of Drusilla.

"You would be better than that."

"You're too clever by half."

"You said you'd trust me with your life."

"I care less about my life than I do about my heart." When he didn't reply to this, Sally continued. "Spike, I'm not trying to play hard to get or any other games. I didn't set out tonight intending that anything physical happen. Neither did you. We're not… ready for this." She sighed, then took a deep breath. "Henry may have had Alzheimer's, but I haven't even been a widow for half a year. You're not anywhere near over Buffy."

"Then we understand each other."

"All I see are roadblocks. It would change things between the three of us, make Angel uncomfortable, you know it would. We may both be vampires, but I've got the cave-vamp with the sleeping disorder. I'm a homebody; you're a free spirit. I lead a boring life; you're a champion, a hero."

"I'm a primate; you're a mollusk."

"What?"

"Didn't hear anything that sounded like an actual barrier. Thought I'd throw one in." He lay his head back and blew out most of his air through his nostrils. "We're vampires, Tolliver. This is what we do." Sally pulled into the driveway, and Spike wrenched open his door and got out to open the gate. Neither said anything else until Sally had pulled into the tobacco shed and turned off the engine.

"You're not going to talk your way into my pants, Spike." She said it with a sigh that sounded suspiciously like regret.

"Is that what you think this is about?"

"You weren't trying to court me until… what happened tonight."

"Nothing happened tonight," he grumbled. In a louder voice, he said, "Détente, before. Remember? Dunno if we can go back to that, not now." He closed his eyes and wrestled with his temper for a moment, then leaned toward her. "Okay. Tonight. You wouldn't know that you could do that, not for me. It means something, vampires or not." He picked up her hat and put it on her head, his touch gentle. His words, however, were defiant. "You take the best sports cars in the world, Sally – Porsches, Maseratis, Ferraris, if the driver at the wheel doesn't know what he's doing, you might as well be in a Yugo." He had an intensely vivid picture of Riley crammed into a tiny foreign import, hunched over the wheel, grinding gears as he clumsily clutched the gearstick.

He slid across the bench seat toward her, and even in the dim light, he could see her grow wary. She bloody well should be; he had once had a powerfully seductive guarantee whispered to him by someone wearing Buffy's body, so powerful that the memory could still take him halfway to hard. Before they left the truck, he was going to make sure she dreamed of him tonight and, quite possibly, for the rest of her life. Spike lifted her left hand from where it rested on the steering wheel and brought it to his lips.

"Let me take the driver's seat, Sally. I can – Bugger this." For Spike, words were a constant, so action meant more. He went to game face, turned her hand, and bit her wrist, puncturing the skin. He held his own wrist to her mouth, running on instinct. She only gazed at him, shocked, so he made an impatient noise and bit into it himself, then let his human features came back into dominance. "There. You know what vampire's blood is, love. You know how powerful it is when it's shared." He lifted her wrist to his lips again and drew her blood into his mouth. Spike's eyes widened as it hit his system; there was a narcotic property to her blood, a little different from the usual lust obtained that way. He smiled against her skin when he heard her gasp, knowing exactly where she was feeling it, then he held his bleeding arm out to her. He wanted another of his kind tonight, a cool body beneath his, powerful arms around him.

"Drink," he commanded. She took his forearm tentatively and touched her lips to the wound, staring at him with wide eyes. "Make me feel it," he sneered, challenging her, "like this." He drew more blood from her veins, taking her over the edge, taking himself to the brink.

She would never have done it if he hadn't been feeding from her, Spike knew. Her eyes tightly closed, she set her lips to his wrist. The suction of her mouth would leave a mark; he wished it wouldn't fade. He grew harder as she fed, laughing aloud with the sheer joy of feeling alive, then pulled her onto him with his free arm, falling back against the seat. He felt a little out of control and didn't mind at all. She sprawled across his body, her hat toppling to the floor of the cab. Sally abandoned his wrist and found his mouth, their blood mingling again. With both hands now free, Spike slid his hands across her bottom again, settling her astride him. "My shirt," he murmured against her mouth. "Rip it off. Feel my skin. See if it still bothers you."

Her face didn't change, but her eyes were dark and he could see the gleam of her human teeth. Obeying, she arched her body away from his and grasped the fabric of his t-shirt in both hands, tearing it and exposing his chest. The ripping sound was erotic, speaking to him of her strength and need and loss of control. Spike arched his own back when Sally's lips found his nipple in the darkness. He placed his hands on the wide strap of her bra and pulled. Her shirt separated first, then the hooks of her bra tore from the stitches that held them. The ruins fell from her shoulders and onto his bare chest. Sally made a sound of protest and swept them down her arms, all her thoughts focused on him, as he intended.

They had shared just enough blood for a weak mindlink. He gave her everything about what it could be like between their kind, his memories of what it felt like to move over Harmony, to be ridden by Dru, Darla's talented, professional mouth, even the feel of Angel's powerful body beneath his hands. It was brutal, effective. She ground against him, crying her pleasure aloud as he assaulted her senses through the link.

Spike chuckled and slid his hands down until he grasped the back of her thighs. He held her close to him as he flipped them over, taking the dominant position. His own eyes were half-closed as he bore down, pressing her into the seat. He lifted her arms above her head, holding them there. When was the last time he'd had control?

"Has it ever been like this? Like I showed you?" Spike looked down at her, seeing her red hair and flushed skin clearly, the darkness nothing to him. He could stop now, he found.

"No," she said, her voice ragged, no breath in reserve.

"In your dreams, when you imagined it was me?"

"No." She lifted her mouth to his.

Smiling, Spike nipped her bottom lip and let go of her hands. He shrugged out of the remnants of his shirt. Waiting for her to regain control, he watched her, a hint of amusement on his face. He knew he could make her plead with him, and there was at least some satisfaction in that.

"You think I'm a gentleman, Sally, so I've stopped. Say the word, and I'll give you more. Do you want me to go on?"

She stared up at him, unable to speak, and he could see how dark her eyes were. Spike hoped she could bring herself to say yes, but she'd be lying if she said no.

"Right, then," he said, sounding much more at ease than he felt, and took one of her hands and slid it into the sleeve of his shirt. He did the same with her other hand, and pulled it down to her shoulders and around her chest. Sally's eyes were closed again, her blunt teeth closed on her lower lip. Even his prosaic movements were too much for her sensitized body. Smiling grimly, he knotted the ends of the torn shirt between her breasts. Then he leaned close to her ear, letting her take his weight, and gave her his own erotic promise, his voice like the purr of a great cat. "Think of everything I didn't do, didn't touch, didn't taste. Next time, I get to take it out of park and into first gear, pet." Sally opened her eyes, focusing on him as he opened his thoughts to her again through their shared blood. She convulsed beneath him, and he coldly calculated the improved odds that she would come to his bed later tonight.

Sally slid her fingers around his wrist and brought it to her lips. She let go of his arm and placed her own wrist against his mouth, offering him more. Spike found he was breathing, almost shocked that she was going to go through with this now. He closed his eyes and reopened the wound, feeding on her heady blood, feeling a surge of lust as her teeth grazed him and blood passed from his body into her.

She slid her free hand along his ribs and between their bodies, and, with the long abstinence and the bloodlust on him, even through his jeans the pressure of her fingers was enough. He bit into her wrist, her flesh muffling his roar as he reached his peak. A second later, he realized that she had managed to even the playing field, and he slammed the bloodlink closed.

Bringing him had been enough for her, too, and his anger ebbed as he watched her struggle again for control. "All right, pet," he said in a low growl, "since you're curious, let me tell you a little about first gear. You'll notice," he moved his hips against her, smiling as a shudder wracked her body, "that I'm good to go. Being dead, I don't ejaculate. What you gave to me was very, very nice, but it doesn't make me a housecat for half an hour. I'm still a tomcat, and I've got way more than nine lives." A little anger did creep into his voice. "Open your eyes, Sally."

After a few seconds, she did. She didn't look dazed any longer.

"Want you to see me," he continued, "see that this is me. Won't be any different three days, three weeks, three months from now." He lifted himself away from her, then pulled her into a sitting position, fingers clamped on her shoulders. "Could be inside you right now, moving so slowly, Tolliver. The only reason I'm not is…you."

"You're in the driver's seat," Sally said in a husky tone that seemed to touch him physically in all the right places.

He knew that she meant it literally, too, as they had changed places. He nodded, satisfied with her acknowledgement. "You can be in the driver's seat sometimes, and I'll be your backseat driver." He grinned against her cheek.

She averted her face, but he'd already seen the anguish on it. "I don't love you."

It was like being drenched in cold water. Those words… Spike grew still, staring at her, their faces barely an inch apart.

"You're right," she said. "I didn't know… This isn't who I am. Whatever you want is yours, willingly, God help me, gratefully." She gritted her teeth, forcing herself to be calm. "Now, Spike, if it's what you want." Her voice broke on the last word. "But, please don't. I've never had… cheap, about lust." She put her forehead against his, then buried her face against his neck, clinging to him for comfort. "We deserve better. You deserve better."

Vampire or not, he barely heard her last words. His arms tightened around her automatically, and he stared over her head into the darkness, well and truly shaken. She had a valid reason, after all. Now, his body insisted, now is good, but he hardly noticed it, either. She was a vampire, was shaking with need and still refused to do anything that might hurt him. She was not one of his kind, had never lived as a demon, didn't understand what he wanted.

If things had progressed in the parking lot, while they were surprised by their passion, it might have been all right, might have just been sex. But if it was anything more than sex… he felt his stomach curl into knots. He couldn't do it.

He heard Sally take a breath, so he released her and broke the silence first. "I'm giving you your keys back," he said, realizing that he was the one pulling them back from the edge, "metaphorically. I didn't play fair. I just… wanted you to dream of me tonight, Sally."

"Who else would I dream of?"

He closed his eyes and turned his head away, as if the sound of her voice hurt him. "I didn't mean to… distress you."

"That's a new euphemism," she said wryly. She had apparently found the comfort she needed in his embrace. "Honey, it's okay. I got knocked down a peg or two," she admitted, lifting her shoulders. "If I fall to pieces when you touch me," she touched his face and met his eyes shyly, "I can live with that... or, at least, you can't kill me. Already dead." Her expression became serious as she studied him, and Spike had no idea what she might see in his eyes.

"I won't tempt you again." He couldn't read her expression either, until just before she spoke.

Her voice was small. "Not even a little?"

Spike laughed, going with her attempt to lighten the mood. It was easier. "Go. Get to the house, clean up, and put on more layers of clothes, pet." He shooed her away. Once she was gone, he walked down to the lake and skipped rocks across the surface for a long time, thinking of Anya, of Harmony, and of Drusilla's visit to Sunnydale.

His soul had never given him a moment's grief over Anya and barely a twinge about Harmony and Dru. Apparently, William was as much in favor of getting laid as his demon. What did it matter what he did with his body? His heart safely belonged to Buffy. He'd thought he would be Drusilla's forever, but the second lesson he learned as a vampire, after how to feed, was that he could feel pleasure with members of the family other than Dru. What did sex mean to him even now?

When he walked back to the farm, the dome light was on in the truck. Sally had cleaned the bloodstains from the upholstery. The cleaner and towels were on the hood, and he followed the strong scent that lingered on her hands to the north, until he spied her through the trees. She was sitting by Henry's grave, her head in her hands. He could smell the brine and copper of her tears. Spike had gone to Henry's grave once to read the headstone. Sally's name and a fake date of death were also engraved on it.

He went back to the house and showered, washing her scent from his body, the traces of blood from his healed wrist. Angel would be back soon, and he didn't want her to be embarrassed. When he finished dressing, he found Sally in the living room. Two mugs were on the coffee table, and he took that as an invitation to join her on the couch.

"It is just you, isn't it?" she asked simply, meeting his eyes. "I wouldn't feel this way with just any vampire?"

He shook his head, a slight frown on his brow, and told her what was almost certainly a lie to reassure her. "Just me, you said it yourself. Unless you're a hell of a lot quieter with Angel than you are with me." It seemed he was a better liar with a soul.

She gave him a quelling look, but her relief was easy to read. "Want to watch a movie with me?" she asked.

"Yeah, all right." The smile she gave him was so full of happiness that he was taken aback for a moment. He picked up his cup and gave her a quick, nervous grin in return.

⸹

"Wake up, sleepyheads." Angel shook Spike's shoulder roughly. "Looks like you two had an exciting evening." The blond man was sprawled in Sally's lap, and she was crunched against the corner of the couch, her mouth slightly open. She snapped awake immediately, a growing horror on her face. Sally made a squeaking sound that Angel would have found funny if not for her terrified expression and wriggled from beneath Spike's body, pushing him away. Giving Angel a stricken look, she fell on the floor and scooted toward the far wall.

"'M awake," Spike said groggily.

Sally went back to him on her knees, her hands running across his neck and chest, reassuring herself that he was okay. She gave Spike a fierce hug and dropped a kiss on his forehead, closing her eyes as if in prayer, then left him, putting distance between herself and the two men again.

"I must have just drifted off for a few minutes," she said, low and dark. In a tone of self-loathing that Angel had never heard from her before, she added, "I'm not fit to be around decent people."

"Good thing it's just me and Spike, then," he said. "Calm down, Sally." Concerned, he walked around the couch and helped her up. "You're shaking. Anything short of a pile of dust, you can't hurt either of us." He pulled her into a hug, then ran his hands up and down her arms. "Come on. Let's get you something warm to drink."

Still feeling wooly from sleep, almost hung over, Spike watched them leave and listened to Angel's voice as he continued to soothe her. He wandered into the kitchen in their wake, aware once again of how comfortable she was with the other man, understanding now why Angel was safe for her to touch. He still didn't like it.

"What time is it?" Sally asked. She was sitting at the table, and Angel was puttering around, taking charge.

"A little after three-thirty."

"Good. I couldn't have been asleep more than a few minutes. Did you just get back?"

"Yeah. Traffic was heavier than usual. Friday night, I guess. What did you guys do while I was gone?"

Sally looked up at Spike, who stood in the doorway. "We went out, actually. I took Spike to a local drinking establishment."

"A honky-tonk," he corrected, amazed at how normal they sounded.

"Spike got in a fight."

Angel turned to look at him, exasperated. "You've saved the world, and you still get into bar fights?"

"Yeah." He sounded inordinately pleased about it.

"Did you win?" Angel needled.

"Angel, he didn't start it. He was defending my honor."

Angel opened the microwave and brought the cup to Sally. "Sounds like a story."

She shook her head. "He didn't hurt them any more than they needed. It was kind of neat, actually – not for them, but I enjoyed watching." She took a sip, then raised her mug. "Thank you, honey."

"Them?"

"Guy who grabbed her bum had friends," Spike said, shrugging. "Who knew?"

Angel raised the jar, then his eyebrows, looking at Spike. The blond man nodded, so Angel filled two cups and put those in the oven to heat. "I'm gone for half the night, and there are hijinks and shenanigans. I'm not leaving you two alone again," he said with mock sternness. Sally gave the ghost of a smile, and Angel met Spike's eyes over her head, concerned anew. The other man looked uncomfortable and shrugged.

"Can't really blame the guy who grabbed you," Angel said, trying a different tack. At Sally's look of consternation, he grinned. "I've considered it myself a time or two." It earned him a small, grudging grin in return, and she rolled her eyes.

"So, Angel," Spike offered, moving into the kitchen and tilting a chair up onto one leg. He twirled it around and sat down, propping his arms on the back. For the good of his temper, it was time to change the topic. "What did Rupert send? Seven magic beans? Ruby slippers?"

Angel snorted. "He found the Shanshu prophecy, too."

"Oh," Spike said derisively. "At least you got to take the Mustang." But his ire faded. He knew now why the damned prophecy had meant so much to his grandsire.

Sally glanced between them, looking calmer. "Not worth the trip?"

Angel shook his head. He waited until he could bring the warm mugs to the table and slid one over to Spike. "It's a prophecy about a vampire with a soul, and it's not worth the paper Giles printed it off on."

She looked at both men again. "I might like to hear it," she said pointedly.

"The prophecy says that a vampire with a soul will endure a lot of trials and then… well, that's where it gets tricky. The language is long dead, the word 'shanshu' has a lot of meanings, like 'aloha,' or 'shalom' in Hebrew. The vampire may live, or die, or do both, with the inference that he becomes human."

"Or she? Is it a gender-specific prophecy?"

Angel frowned. "I don't know. The translations always say 'he.'"

Spike covered her hand briefly. "Don't get your hopes up, love. Angel and I both have some experience with prophesies, and they never work out in the most obvious interpretation."

Angel was more succinct. "It's bullshit." He took a cautious sip from his mug, then a longer pull when he found it cool enough. "I signed away any right to it, anyway."

Spike's head whipped around. "You did what?"

Angel shrugged. "Signed away any right to the prophecy." He took another sip, uncomfortable beneath Spike's scrutiny. "When I was trying to lull the Circle of the Black Thorn."

"Angel…" Spike's eyes were sharp. "As I recall, you were willing to –"

"I don't believe in it," Angel said with finality. "And, if it is true, it isn't about me." He dropped his eyes, staring at the tabletop.

"Well, it isn't me," Spike said firmly. "I fly well below the radar of any prophesying Powers-That-Be." He took an extravagant drink from his cup. "'Sides, I don't believe in it, either."

Sally shifted her gaze between them, then gave up on understanding the undercurrents in play. "So, y'all don't believe in prophesy."

"Not in many," Angel said, "and definitely not this one. We both made fools of ourselves over this one."

"I got to drive the cool car that time."

"There was one prophesy about the Slayer," Angel said, ignoring Spike, "and a very old vampire called the Master, my grandsire, as a matter of fact. The prophesy said that he would kill her and escape from the place he was imprisoned. As it turned out, he needed her blood to be strong enough to escape. So, if Buffy had never gone to where he was, neither thing could have happened. It wasn't a one-or-the-other, she lived or died, but a cause-and-effect prophecy. She had to die so he could escape. But that wasn't how it read."

"Buffy died… another time?" Sally asked.

Angel nodded. "He fed off her and left her to drown. Xander resuscitated her. So, technically, the prophecy came true, but the outcome was that Buffy lived, destroyed the Master, and went on from there."

"The lesson is, don't rely on prophesy. Well, unless you're a Slayer. You can rely on your own dreams." Spike looked into his cup.

Angel nodded in agreement. "Slayers have prophetic dreams, and at least in Buffy's case, they work pretty well as warnings."

"The dreams aren't worth the cost," Spike said, still looking down. "She'd cry in her sleep, horrible, heartrending sobs, and all I could do was hold her." The last nights before the final battle in Sunnydale had been brutal ones for his girl.

"And I shall flee this awkward silence," Sally said, forcing a smile but not looking at Spike, "for the much more pleasant company of my goats." She left the two men and went outside.

"Sorry, mate."

"It's all right. I'm glad she had someone to hold her."

Spike pushed against the back of the chair. "Something I've been meaning to tell you," he began, looking at his hands. "Buffy and me… there won't be a Buffy and me. We're never going to catch up to each other." He met Angel's eyes briefly. "I think we might manage to be friends. Maybe. Just don't want to have to dance around her name anymore. She's a part of both our lives, and I will always love her, but if it's all the same to you, I'd like to mention her without having to watch out for your feelings, you great poof."

There was no malice in his tone, and Angel studied him. "It's over?"

"It was over before I got my soul," Spike said, "at least the bits you never want to hear about." He stood up, taking his empty cup to the sink to rinse it.

" _Before_ you got your soul?"

Spike didn't turn around. "She came back pretty messed up, mate. Don't blame her."

"I don't… I just didn't know, that's all." Angel looked down at the well-scrubbed surface of the table. "Thanks for telling me."

The blond man shrugged. "You mind if I take a spin in the Mustang?"

Angel nodded to the keys hanging on the peg. "It's Sally's car."

"Right. She lets me drive her car." Angel looked up at the corrosive tone in Spike's voice. "See you in a while, then." He left the other man to his thoughts.

⸹

Spike sat upright in bed, woken from a dreamless sleep by a sound of pain, a woman's scream. Snatching a sheet around his hips, he pelted to Sally's room.

He hit the light switch, bathing her in the harsh glow of the overhead bulbs. The first thing he saw was her red hair, then the red of blood on her chest. "What happened?" he asked, kneeling by the bed, pushing her hair away from a series of deep gashes between her shoulder and collarbone.

"Sally, are you all right?" Angel asked from the doorway. He'd taken an additional couple of seconds to pull on his pants.

"He bit me," she said tiredly.

Spike and Angel exchanged a wary glance. "It wasn't me!" they each protested.

"No," Sally said. "I bit myself. It happens every so often, when he gets frustrated or bored enough."

Spike pressed his sheet against the wound, staunching the sluggish flow of blood. "Angel, get the–"

"Got it," he said, the key in his hand. "Here. I'll get the gauze." He tossed the key to Spike.

"Just unlock me," Sally said. "I'll take care of it."

They ignored her. Spike loosed the manacles and picked her up to carry her into the bathroom. He settled her on the edge of the bathtub. Angel was waiting with tape and a roll of gauze.

"Really, guys, I can take care of this myself. When I dozed off on the couch, he must have sensed Spike close by and waited –"

"Be quiet," Angel ordered.

"Bad patient," Spike admonished.

She gave up and let them dress the wound. "Thank you both. Sorry to disturb your sleep," she said when they finished.

Angel put the tape back in the first aid kit. "Like you wouldn't have done the same for us."

"Only we would have been more polite about it," Spike added.

"Um, Spike," Angel said. "You're… the sheet."

"What? Oh. Right." He lifted the forgotten sheet from the floor and tucked it around his hips again. He caught Sally's eye, and she suppressed a grin. "Speaking of sheets, Peaches, why don't you change the ones on Sally's bed?"

"Sure. Just keep yours tucked." He put the kit away and left the bathroom.

"I'm sorry, Spike," Sally said. "I could have hurt you tonight."

"You didn't," he replied, shrugging.

"Well, I know you aren't fond of the Turok-Han."

He studied her face. "Was it the… different drink that stirred him up?"

She shrugged in turn, looking troubled. "I'm terribly disappointed," Sally said after a moment, sitting up straighter, her eyes flicking down to the sheet.

"Why?" he challenged her, more than a touch of arrogance in his tone. "I obviously grew up in dire poverty. Dickens based every serial on my poor family, the Cratchitt-Copperfield-Nickleby-Twists. Never had a single toy."

She grinned. "Well, it's just… I thought you were a natural blond."

He laughed at that. "Natural redheads are even rarer," he said, touching the waistband of her pajama bottoms and peering over his cheekbones.

"Back off," she said good-naturedly, swatting at his fingers.

"Leave the patient alone," Angel ordered as he came back into the bathroom. "She needs bed rest."

"Pity." Spike scooped her up once again.

Angel blocked his progress at the door. "You're going to lose that sheet again, so for everyone's sake..." He neatly plucked Sally from Spike's arms and carried her back to her room.

Sally, who by this point had given up and was staring fixedly into middle distance, waited until he put her on the mattress. "Thank you, honey. Now, if you don't mind, I want to get out of this shirt into a clean one, so…."

"No problem." Angel smiled and picked up a clean t-shirt he'd found in her bureau. "Here's one. I can wait." He crossed his arms and stood watching her innocently. His thoughts weren't innocent, but he kept them to himself. Three half-dressed vampires, the scent of blood, and too much bodily contact was guaranteed to lead to naughty ideas.

Sally took the shirt from him and passed him the key to her chains in return. "Out." When she heard both men's doors close, she changed and took the bloodied pajama top to the kitchen to treat the stain. The phone rang, and she jumped a little in surprise. She quickly rinsed her hands and trotted across the kitchen, but the answering machine picked up. It was Regina from HST Transport, and she listened to the dispatcher's offer, looking thoughtful. She went to the living room and logged into her email account. Sally scanned the information Regina had sent, and then made a face. The start date for the contract was tomorrow. Thirteen days, Knoxville to LA, then back by way of Houston. Maybe it wasn't a bad thing to have some distance between her and Spike. She knew what he would think, and maybe she would be running, but leaving seemed the wiser choice.

⸹

"So, you'll see me off in Knoxville and one of you can drive the Cadillac back home," Sally said, filling three mugs on the kitchen table at eleven that night. She had left her old-person car in storage in Knoxville when she'd gone to L.A. and had been in no hurry to retrieve it. "There's plenty of blood in the freezer. Is there anything either of you would like me to do while I'm in Los Angeles?"

Neither of her houseguests spoke immediately.

Angel shifted uncomfortably. "Sally, I don't know how to ask you this–"

She interrupted him, smiling. "Honey, I would have gone to see Charles without you asking. I'm going to take him a program I found from a 1982 North Carolina game. Michael Jordan's in it."

"No, it's not that." He frowned. "I know you have to work, and what I was going to ask is whether Spike and I can do more to contribute around here. Money, I mean."

She looked at him blankly, then glanced at Spike, who was watching her with raised eyebrows. "What? You mean rent or something?"

"Yeah," Angel agreed. "We really should have said something before."

Sally shook her head. "Aw, no, guys. You do enough around the farm. I mean, re-roofing the barn alone would be rent for three or four months, for what y'all get around here."

"Rooms, room service…" said Spike.

"Laundry, motor pool, discretion," Angel continued in a dry voice, "diplomatic services. You took us in at great danger to yourself, Sally. The least we can do is help out financially."

"Yeah, we figure your, uh, late husband's life insurance will only stretch so far," Spike agreed.

She looked between them somewhat incredulously. "You two," she said, reaching for their hands, "are just so sweet. But, you know, it isn't necessary."

"If I can keep you away from Los Angeles, I will," said Angel, squeezing her fingers. "I know we don't have any reason to believe Wolfram and Hart have connected us to you, but –"

"Honey, I don't take these jobs for the money," Sally interrupted. "I take them to stay involved in the world. It would be so easy to just live here on the farm and run a couple hundred head of Angus, feed off them and never see another living soul. I choose to work, to go out, keep meeting people." She pulled their hands closer to her. "That's how I got to know y'all."

"Still, we want to help out financially," Angel said in a determined tone.

She let go of their hands and looked from him to Spike, clearly surprised. Then she looked up at the light fixture for a moment. "Y'all know I drive for HST, right? What do you think that stands for?"

"Henry and Sally Tolliver," Spike guessed after a few seconds, his eyes narrowing.

"Of course," she agreed. "I thought you knew. I mean, we don't own it anymore; Henry sold it in the mid-eighties." Something seemed to occur to her, and she gave Angel a sharp look. "You thought Henry and I were just… truck drivers, huh? Angel, that's why you fussed at me over spending a bunch of money on fireworks."

"Nah," Spike said. "The old man's just cheap."

"Be nice," Sally said absently. She sucked her cheeks in for a second. "I'll admit, my parents thought I was making a mistake, like marrying a Tolliver was beneath a Collier." She rolled her eyes, and since Angel was watching her, both of them missed the shadow that crossed Spike's face at that turn of phrase. "Well, I know how to pick 'em. Henry got a degree in finance on the G.I. Bill and spent most of the fifties and sixties in the Research Triangle. He invested in computers and technology on the ground floor and… did really well. He was always worried about providing for me – I mean, it's a macho, sexist thing, but that's how marriage was back then – and feeling obligated to provide for someone who's… indefinite is quite a burden. Henry had done well enough to take early retirement, manage his portfolio full-time, and feel comfortable about my future by 1966. A mean little part of me kind of wished my parents had lived to see it.

"Anyway, Henry got bored with retirement and took up long-distance truck driving as a second career, so we could travel. He bought one rig for us, but it wasn't in his nature to miss an investment opportunity, and the company just grew like a weed. Knoxville was at the intersection of I-75 and I-40, a perfect place to locate a trucking company. In the eighties, when his arthritis got worse, he sold HST for probably three times what it was worth, based on location alone.

"I never have to balance my checkbook, and that means a lot to someone who grew up in the Great Depression." Her eyes met Spike's for a second. "If I don't touch the principal, I can 'live' very comfortably… indefinitely." She finished in a small voice. "I'm not just a poor old widow woman."

Spike looked nonplussed. "You're… you live in a farmhouse in rural North Carolina, the only thing I've ever seen you wear are tank tops, you got me to weld the radiator in a thirty-year-old tractor… This isn't making a whole lot of sense, Sally."

She shrugged. "Great Depression, remember? What I've got is good enough. I like living here; this is home. And I like tank tops. I hate shirts that are tight around the neck."

"Just how… comfortable are we talking?" Angel asked, haltingly. He was thinking of the fireworks, a shed with almost a dozen punching bags, the innumerable boxes from Amazon, her brand-new truck… He should have figured it out sooner, but he'd really just thought the money was from life insurance.

"Last time I violated one of the three rules of polite conversation, it didn't turn out so well," Sally said, giving Spike a soft look. "So, let's just say that y'all don't need to worry about helping out. I can afford to keep y'all around, long as you want to stay. Indefinitely, in fact."

"I don't understand," Angel said. "You took care of Henry here by yourself for years."

Sally's face grew very still. "Henry took care of me for years, saved my life in all the ways that count. I'm going to live forever; do you think I'd begrudge him such a short time after his lifetime of devotion?"

"I didn't mean that," Angel said. "What I meant to say is, I didn't know that you had any options. Taking care of someone with Alzheimer's isn't a walk in the park."

Tears stood in her eyes. "Having money doesn't mean there was ever an option."

"It does mean that you don't have to take this job," Angel pointed out, pouncing while she was vulnerable. He met her eyes, his eyebrows raised.

"I signed the contract and faxed it back," she replied, "so I have to go."

Angel's expression darkened. "It'll be the last contract, then. I don't want you in Los Angeles, not while–"

"Fortunately, you're not the boss of me," Sally interrupted in an overly calm voice.

"Try me." Angel glared at her a moment, then shook his head. "Sally, it's just too risky."

"And you're the one who decides who gets to take risks?"

"About this, I do," he growled. For a moment, Angel looked almost as dangerous as he was. Sally's implacable look didn't waver.

"Well, I for one am quite happy to be a kept man," Spike said, breaking their silence. "Some people in the Victorian era made an art of sponging off their well-to-do relations. I don't mind giving it a try." He stretched extravagantly.

Angel threw him a sharp look. "A kept man usually earns–"

"Let's stop right there," Sally said loudly.

"Why are you blushing?" Angel asked.

"Keeping two men?" she shot back. "That sort of makes me blush."

Angel grinned at her. "Two vampires. You'd be getting your money's worth."

Spike took a hasty swallow from his mug and changed the topic once again. "I only know one other wealthy vampire, and he's a complete ponce."

"Who?" Sally asked.

"The Count," Spike drawled in disdain. Angel scoffed in agreement.

"Count Dracula?" Sally asked in an arch tone. When they both stared at her stonily, her jaw dropped. "Not really?"

"Yeah, he's real," Angel confirmed.

"Eurotrash," Spike declared. "Uses his money to have special dirt in his sarcophagus, live in mansions, rot like that."

Sally wrinkled her nose. "Sounds high maintenance."

"Dru thought he was handsome," Angel said, giving Spike a significant look.

"Yeah, well, so did Buffy," Spike shot back.

"No." Angel sounded wounded.

"He fed off her."

"When did this happen?" Angel's lip curled in disgust.

"While she was dating that prat Riley," Spike said. "I guess she had to have a fix of vampire, no matter how pathetic."

"Riley," Angel said, as if that explained everything.

"I should know better than to ask," Sally said, sounding weary, "but who or what was Riley?"

"Buffy's college boyfriend," Spike said. "Human."

"Punched like a girl," Angel said. "Just a regular, little girl, I mean," he amended, shooting Sally an apologetic look, meaning it to be for more than just the remark.

"I never got a chance to thrash him," Spike said, real regret in his voice, "and I'm positive he's behind me gettin' fit up over some contraband demon eggs in Sunnydale. Unfortunately, him and his boys shoved the chip up my brain before I got to know and loathe him."

Sally was taken aback. "Buffy dated someone in the Initiative?"

"Well, don't blame her," Angel said. "He was her rebound boyfriend after I left for L.A."

"Stupid git thought condoms in colors really spiced up things in the bedroom," Spike scoffed. "I mean, colored johnnys? Come on! You gotta wonder which partner that's supposed to stimulate and which it's supposed to distract."

In the deafening silence that followed this statement, Angel blew out the breath he might have used to insult Riley further. Without looking at either of them, Sally mused. "No, speaking as a woman, color wouldn't do a thing for me."

"Yeah," Spike said, "Buffy said the–"

"Spike, honey," Sally interrupted, "you might want to change the topic."

"Oh," Spike said slowly, looking at Angel's pained expression. "Right. Sorry, mate. I was in Sunnydale for that whole sad thing; didn't mean to – You know what always pissed me off about Riley?" he asked. "That he wanted to be stronger than Buffy."

This did divert Angel. "He wanted to be stronger than the Slayer?"

"Yeah! It was a real challenge to his manliness," Spike mocked.

"Are the Slayers stronger than us?" Sally asked, also diverted.

"By design," Angel said, nodding.

Spike, however, was shaking his head. "Stronger than us, than run-of-the-mill vamps," he said slowly, "but maybe not stronger than Turok-Han." He looked over at Angel. "Remember at the clinic, when Sally tried to stake you? Not Buffy, but I think Sally could take any of the baby slayers."

"Not Faith," Angel disagreed.

"Oh, please," Spike scoffed. "I could take Faith, and so could you. You're speaking as her fairy godmother, not as an objective warrior." He flapped a hand dismissively.

"Faith's smart, resourceful," Angel protested. "I mean, she's not Buffy, but you couldn't take her."

"Yeah, I could," Spike stated flatly. "For that matter, I had Buffy down twice, my fangs right at her neck. 'Course, the last time I had about a year's worth of hate stored up. Thought I'd gotten rid of the chip, but I was just about to bite down and my head nearly came in two."

Angel grew still. "Really?"

Spike nodded. "Would have been three Slayers in a hundred years. Record would have stood for bloody ever."

Sally, who had been turning her head as if she was at a tennis match to follow the conversation, looked at Angel narrowly. "You're impressed by this?"

He shrugged defensively. "Professionally, yeah. I mean, Angelus was in it for sadistic pleasure. Spike… was just rowdy. He was in it for the fight. He's good."

"Thanks," Spike said. "I'm touched, mate, I really am."

"That doesn't mean I want to do your nails or anything."

Spike blew him a kiss, and Angel rolled his eyes. "See?" Spike said to Sally, sliding a hand across his abdomen. "Doesn't bother a man who's secure in his sexuality, not like that poof in the bar."

Sally shook her head. "I should pay you two, for sheer entertainment value."

⸹

Not long before sunrise, Spike found Sally on the front porch, looking at the slowly purpling eastern sky. He put his hands on her shoulders. "Coward," he said in a low voice.

The corner of her mouth curved. "I knew you would say that."

"Run, Sally, run."

"All right. I'm not denying any of it." She lifted a shoulder and pressed his hand against her cheek. "That was a nice diversion at the kitchen table, by the way. Thank you."

"Anytime. He can be just a bit highhanded." His hands left her shoulders and one slid into the back pocket of her jeans. "Here. That's for you."

She fished for the hard object he'd left in her pocket and finally turned around. "A cell phone?"

"I just went and got it." He pulled a matching phone from his own pocket. "These are special phones. They only call each other, and they do it every night at five a.m., when you're on some lonely stretch of highway with nothing better to do. And when that happens, you'll be compelled to tell me about yourself. I don't want any more surprises like at the kitchen table."

"Spike," she began, but he cut her off.

"No. You're a good listener, too easy to talk to. People forget that you aren't talking. Angel and I have taken you at face value, and we're old enough to know better." He looked up at the fading stars for a moment. "It's been nice being here, somewhere safe, somewhere I'm… welcome, even with Angel. I've told you things I've never told anyone else. Maybe I'd like to hear something from you."

"There's not much to tell."

"I've lived with you almost three months in this little farmhouse, and I just find out tonight you've got, I'm assuming, millions." He raised a skeptical eyebrow.

"It's not uncommon for people who start out poor to be embarrassed by having enough." She saw the look on his face. "More than enough," she amended. Then, staring at his boots, she mumbled, "Do you still like me, even if I've got money?"

"Do you mean, am I threatened by it? No. Vampires – regular, no-soul vampires, I mean – creep around in the dark places where people don't go. Find a lot of forgotten things hidden in forgotten places, but why should they care? It isn't blood, is it? Just a pile of cold metal. I turn treasure hunter, pet, I can afford to keep _you_."

"So, it doesn't matter to you? Not one way or another?"

"No. Bit of a strop that I didn't know earlier." He held up the phone. "Five o'clock, Eastern Daylight Savings Time. You talk, I listen. Give you a chance to talk your way into my pants."

"All right." She grinned, but it faded quickly. "I'll miss you, you know."

"You are running away," Spike said precisely. "You do not get to miss anyone."

⸹

Angel lifted his head from where he had been poring over a volume of Flaubert, trying to place the ringing. Not Sally's phone; she had already called for the night to let them know when to be in Knoxville tomorrow to pick her up. He quickly went down the hallway and found that one of the remaining cell phones bought that last day in Los Angeles was ringing. He recognized the first part of the number. Someone was calling from Italy.

"Yes."

"Angel?"

"Buffy?"

"Hi, Angel. I got the number from Giles. I hope this isn't a bad time?"

"No, never," he said, unable to keep a smile from his face. "This is an unexpected pleasure."

"I'm calling because I need to ask a favor."

"Anything."

"I'm flying into Charlotte in three days, and I wondered if you could come pick me up."

"Of course I can, but, Buffy, why Charlotte?"

"Because I want to see you guys, of course. I'm headed to Cleveland, eventually, but I thought… I hoped you wouldn't mind if I made North Carolina my first stop."

"I'm always glad to see you."

"Do you think Sally would mind if I stay there?"

"No. She loves company. She hasn't kicked us out yet, anyway. Let me get a pencil, then you can tell me your flight information." He went back to the kitchen and wrote it on a sheet torn from the pad for the grocery list. He hesitated as she read off the arrival time. "So you get in at four in the afternoon?"

"I know. I don't mind waiting until sunset. I'll bring a book or something."

"A book?"

"I read!" After a static-filled silence, she said, "Okay, maybe it'll be a magazine."

"Ah, Buffy, I do miss you."

"I miss you, too, Angel."

"Have a safe trip."

Angel turned off the phone, leaned against the counter, and stared at the flight information he had written without really seeing it. Buffy had said that she wanted to see them both, but he was positive that she had wanted him to come to the airport alone. It wasn't dreaming. He went over the conversation in his mind. She hadn't uttered Spike's name.

He sighed and stood up. Just because she hadn't mentioned the other man didn't mean he wasn't obliged to tell Spike that Buffy was coming for a visit. He knew that he would want a warning, if the situation were reversed. Angel listened to the silent house, then slid into his shoes. Spike had roared back onto the farmstead an hour ago and was probably still tinkering with the Ducati. They hadn't actively avoided each other since their hostess left, but they hadn't sought each other's company, either. He left the house, looking up at the sky out of habit. It was after five, and the eastern horizon was beginning to lighten.

The blond man wasn't in the motor pool, so Angel tilted his head, listening to the still night and absently patting either Kili or Fili, who had sauntered over to get its hard little head rubbed. He heard bullfrogs and tree frogs, crickets, a bird that sounded too doleful to be the early bird, and then the murmur of Spike's voice from the tobacco shed. Curious, Angel slid downwind and approached from the far side of the building in silence. Although the open sides of the shed had been covered with rough planking, the walls had enough chinks that he was able to see Spike sitting in the bed of the truck, his face illuminated by the blue glow of a cell phone. He was ashamed of his immediate thought, that the other man was betraying him, but it didn't keep him from listening intently. Very faint and tinny, he could hear a woman's voice.

"… like Laura Petrie, you know, from the old _Dick Van Dyke Show_. Even without a mirror, I could pull that look off, a headband and little Capri pants. So there we were, throwing cocktail parties from every basement apartment in the Raleigh-Durham area, Henry strutting around like a rooster with his very young wife." As soon as she said the word 'Henry,' Angel placed Sally's voice.

"Cocktail parties with banker types. Sounds as scintillating in the 1960s as it was in the 1870s." Spike's voice was low and amused.

"Well, you asked."

"I did." Spike turned his head slightly, his eyes narrowing. "So, celebrity most likely to be a vampire. Who do you think?"

"Nicole Kidman," Sally replied promptly.

"She is pale and scary," Spike agreed.

"Who do you think?"

"Could go for the obvious and say Dick Clark, but I'm going to say Walter Cronkite."

"No way! I love Uncle Walter," Sally protested.

"Bloke's been retired for decades…."

Spike's voice faded as Angel retraced his steps and went back to the house, a bemused expression on his face. Why was Spike talking to Sally on the sly? He could only think of one explanation, and Angel grinned in the darkness.

⸹

"What did you need, Angel?" Spike asked a few minutes later, coming to the door of the living room.

"You heard me?" He twisted around, surprised.

"Smelled you," Spike said. He waved his hand around his head. "Hair gel."

"Oh." Angel frowned and put his book down on the coffee table. "So," he began, getting comfortable on the couch, "you were talking to Sally. Alone. In private. All cozy in the dark, except for the vast distances of highway."

Spike sucked in his cheeks for a second, giving a little nod of his head. "Just doing my duty as a soldier in the Angel army," he said, moving to the chair in front of the computer. He slumped into it. "Checking out the Mata Hari types."

"Thought you said she was 'good.'" Angel struggled against a smile. "Or is that what you're hoping to find out?"

Spike acknowledged this, too, with a patient look. "Yeah, well, I don't want any more million-dollar surprises. Pissed me off."

"So you've been talking to her every night since she's been away?"

"Most nights, yeah."

"What did you find out?"

He shrugged. "She's a good person, was a good wife to old Henry. Her vampire got loose four times, twice in the first month after she was sired, and she sired five vampires in three of those nights. Wanted kids, but not that kind. She figured as she was immortal, she had time to improve herself, so she tried to learn to play the piano, hated it; taught herself to tat lace – who does that nowadays? Lot of anecdotes about Henry. They had a good marriage. Don't see that much anymore."

"The Burkles do."

"Fred's parents?"

"Yeah." The fondness in Angel's voice was tempered by sorrow.

"Still miss – never mind." He let his head drop over the back of the chair so that he was looking at the ceiling. "The deal was, she talks, I listen."

"Good strategy, Spike. I know the less I hear you talk, the happier I am. How'd that work out?"

He lifted his head, once again refusing the bait, and met Angel's look with a small smile. "Bit better than you might think. She's not there with those sympathetic hugs or the little touch on your shoulder, you don't blather on quite so much."

"Ah, yes, those little touches," Angel said, not bothering to hide his grin. "Good luck with it, Spike." He picked up the volume of Flaubert again. "She turned me down flat."

It took a moment to sink in, then the chair stopped in mid-swivel. "You made a move? When?"

"Weeks ago," Angel said matter-of-factly, tilting the book so it covered most of his face. "One hug too many out beneath the stars… Sometimes a man just has to seize the… moment."

Spike's eyes narrowed. "Turned you down flat, did she?"

Angel shot him a look over the top of the book. "Didn't even get a kiss. At least I tried." He shrugged. "Don't get your hopes up, Spike, my boy. Long distance relationships never work. At least I was in the same area code with her." His smile hidden by the book, he added, "Anyway, being from Galway, I know redheads. They're temperamental. Don't want to upset them, and, frankly, you don't make people… calm. Might be too much for an Englishman like you. Harmony, now…."

"Dunno about redheads bein' too much. I got on with Willow pretty well." Spike's voice still didn't give anything away. "Like you said, though, a bloke's gotta try. Don't hardly know how go about it, though, if for once we're not competing for the same bird." He sat up straighter and changed the subject. "Anyway, what did you want?"

"Oh." He tucked a long finger between the pages as a bookmark and sat up. "Sorry. I was having so much fun I nearly forgot. Buffy's coming for a visit."

As smooth as he had managed to be while Angel needled him about Sally, Spike couldn't keep the edge out of his voice at this news. "Buffy? When?"

"She's flying in from Italy this week, to the airport in Charlotte."

"Char– Here?" Spike's eyes narrowed again. "She's checking up on us." He pointed a finger at Angel. "As I recall, you're supposed to be watching out for me."

"Likewise," Angel said. "So, you want me to go easy on you?"

Spike scoffed. "I'll always take your best shot, Angel. It's usually amusing, in a pathetic kind of way."

"She won't be staying long. She's going on to Cleveland."

"Anything going on?"

"She didn't say."

Spike nodded. "Well, I'm sure we'll all enjoy her visit." His tone was wry rather than bitter.

Angel gave him a sharp look. "Are you growing up, Spike?"

"Never happen, mate," Spike drawled. "Least, not till I'm a pathetic, doddering vampire of two-hundred-and-fifty." He stood from the chair. "I'll leave you to your book, old man."

Angel flipped him off, and Spike flashed him the v's in return as he left the living room. Angel waited until he heard footsteps down the hall and the bedroom door close before he smiled. He stretched out again and opened his book, satisfied and relieved. If Spike had really given up on Buffy, that made things so much easier.

An hour later, Spike came back into the living room, freshly showered and taking advantage of the current lack of feminine sensibilities by wearing nothing but jeans. "Shove over," he told Angel, pushing his legs off the end of the couch and slouching down into the cushions. He grabbed the remote and began checking through the sports channels for football. Angel put his feet back up, into Spike's lap, getting an icy blue glare for his trouble, but the boy left them there. Sunrise came, brightening the room around the edges of the blinds, and he dozed off.

Angel didn't wake up until almost seven that night, feeling like it was the first real rest he'd had in a century. Then he realized why: Spike was asleep, his head on his grandsire's hip, one pale arm curving around his waist. Angel closed his eyes; the boy always looked so vulnerable in sleep. He had sketched Will like this, unguarded in the family bed. Reaching out carefully, not wanting him to awaken, he touched the line of the sculpted cheek. His family, his beautiful child.

Yesterday, he couldn't have done this. Yesterday, Spike was his rival. Now, though… After he saw them together, when he'd had a chance to see if it was really over between Buffy and Spike, if that went okay… Maybe they could be family again.

⸹

Sally was already waiting at the HST gates in Knoxville when they arrived the next night, a big grin on her face. She opened the truck's passenger door and embraced Spike, then crawled across him to hug Angel, causing the blond man to make a quick, evasive maneuver to avoid her knees.

"Careful, pet," he warned. An equally pained expression crossed his face for different reasons as she wiggled across his lap and back out of the truck to get her bag and the ubiquitous cot.

Angel found that he couldn't keep a grin off his own face, not just because of Spike's discomfort. It had been a while since anyone had been so glad to see him. Sally had stowed her gear and moved more carefully past the blond man to claim the middle seat before he managed to get an appropriately brooding set to his mouth. "How was the trip?" he asked.

"Fine, but it's good to be back." Still smiling, she leaned against his shoulder for a second. She turned to Spike and put an arm across the back of the seat, giving him another quick hug. "I'm starved; I haven't eaten anything solid for days. Y'all ever had Krispy Kreme? I've been dreaming of a chocolate-covered, custard-filled doughnut for a week. There's a franchise not far from here. They've got powdered doughnuts, too. I've never met a man that didn't like powered doughnuts. Although y'all might not want those, with the Man in Black thing. Krispy Kreme has a lot of different kinds, though. Angel, if you remember how to get to the interstate from here, I'll tell you the exit."

Her bubbly happiness was infectious, and Angel gave up and smiled down at her. "I remember."

She turned to Spike again and kissed his cheek. "It is so good to see y'all. I did miss you."

Spike looked down at her. "It's good to see you, too," he said formally. Sally's gaze skittered away, and she turned back to Angel. Spike raised an eyebrow.

"So, been driving the Mustang?"

"Yeah. I washed it the day before yesterday." Angel slowed for a red light.

"Did you give it a full body shampoo?" Spike asked, his voice innocent.

Sally giggled, then caught Angel's narrow look. "Y'all be nice," she scolded, as if she hadn't laughed. "Well, I ended up bringing a load of dishwasher parts up from Houston in an older rig," she said. "It didn't have a CD player, so I've heard way too much country music over the past few days." She reached for the radio buttons.

"Uh-uh-uh," Angel warned. "I'm the driver; I pick the music." A pained look crossed Sally's face, and her hand fell away from the panel.

"Besides," Spike said, "we'd much rather hear you prattle on than listen to anything we can get on the radio."

"Okay! So! What have y'all been doing?" Sally addressed this question to Angel, her head turned resolutely away from the man on her right. Spike shook his head in amusement.

Angel took pity on her. "How was Gunn?"

⸹

By the time they got back home, Spike was staring fixedly ahead, Sally was absently humming along to a Melissa Manchester tune playing on an easy listening station, and Angel's jaws hurt from grinning so much. Sally was, as she would say, as nervous as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs. She had been calm enough to at least meet Spike's eyes until Angel had asked if he could borrow the truck to go to Charlotte. When she found out that he meant to leave the next afternoon and be gone for at least one night, she had looked at the blond man one last time and flushed a bright red. Sally had alternated between tense silence and babble since then.

"Well!" Angel said, stretching as he stepped out of the truck. There was a gleam in his eye. "Look at the time. Almost five." He hoisted the cot and Sally's bag from the bed of the truck and started out of the shed, heading toward the house. "I'll leave you two alone for your usual dead-of-night heart-to-heart." He caught Sally's beseeching look and one from Spike that promised retribution and ignored both. Anything he could do to encourage this, he would do, mostly for selfish reasons.

They stood in silence as the truck lights dimmed. The sound of the screen door slamming shut echoed across the yard before Sally lifted her gaze from her shoes.

"Alone at last," Spike said.

"Um," Sally said, barely a squeak.

He moved a step toward her. "Why so nervous, love?"

"Probably because Angel left us alone," she said, sounding peeved.

"Being alone with me makes you nervous now?" He slid a bit closer, predatory and amused.

"You know it does. I've been acting like a teenaged virgin on her first date. Oh, stop smiling." By now she was smiling herself.

"You let me welcome you home, I promise to stop smiling. I've endured hours of cheesy listening radio for this."

"One kiss."

"More than enough."

She blushed again. "I swear, Spike, you make me remember how to breathe." He chuckled and closed the last bit of distance between them.

⸹

Ten minutes later, Angel stepped onto the screened-in porch. He padded to the right side of the room, skirting a wicker table, and looked down at Spike and Sally through the screen. "What on earth are you two doing?"

"Er, what does it look like we're doing?" Spike asked. "We're getting this tarp up on the roof."

"If you want to leave tomorrow afternoon," Sally said, "I thought maybe we could bring the truck close to the door and use the tarp as a makeshift carport." She got a toehold on the edge of the railing and shimmied up to the roof. "Hand it up."

"That's very thoughtful," Angel said. "Thanks."

"You're welcome." Sally's reply floated down to him.

Spike stepped onto the small overhang of the porch floor, then lifted the tarpaulin above his head. Angel looked at him through the mesh. He whistled, making the sound fade like a bomb falling through the air. "Ka-pow," Angel said softly, shaking his head in mock sympathy.

"Got it," Sally said.

Spike let go of the tarp and met Angel's laughing eyes. He started to say something, then shrugged and hoisted himself to the roof. Angel smirked in the darkness, then went in to get his shoes. He should help; making a carport would be good use of the darkness.

On the roof, Spike gave Sally a perfunctory smile. While pleasant enough, there had been no passion in their embrace this time. He was afraid that he knew the reason why.

In less than half an hour, one side of the tarp was attached to the roof and the other side to the arched rib of a greenhouse frame. Angel volunteered to drive the truck beneath the shelter. In the tobacco shed, he paused a moment, then went to a corner, where several bundles of tobacco stakes were gathering dust. He pulled one out, looking at the length. The slender wooden pole was sharp on both ends and could be shoved through the stalks of several tobacco plants. The pole would be laid across the rafters of the shed, with the tobacco hanging down in the sheltered air to cure. It was about as long as a yardstick, but much sturdier. It would do. If he wasn't mistaken, it was the same thing that had worked for Sally for over half a century.

He snapped it in half and put both pieces beneath the driver's seat of the truck. Angel started the engine and drove in a wide circle to where Spike and Sally were waiting for him by the makeshift garage. He had been vague about Buffy's time of arrival, saying that he wanted to check out the airport before she came, maybe split the return trip into two days. If he were back in three nights, his friends wouldn't worry.

⸹

At one in the afternoon, Angel shook Sally's shoulder. He'd promised to wake her before he left. He didn't like goodbyes, but, as he was taking her truck, he felt obligated. She rolled over, her own features in place, and looked up at him. "Ready to leave?" she asked, propping up on one elbow.

"Ready," he replied, unlocking the manacles. She followed him out to the porch, yawning. The truck was already idling.

"You are ready. Did you get the cooler out of the fridge?" At his nod, she raised an eyebrow. "Nervous?"

"You should know about nervous," he said mildly.

Sally nodded ruefully. "It's just as well. Being alone here with him will force me to get over it." She stifled a yawn and gave Angel a hug. "Be careful, okay, honey? I know you and Buffy can whup whole armies, but watch out for idiot drivers."

He dropped a kiss on her head, hugging her in return. "Yes, ma'am." Angel held her at arm's length. "I'll see you in two days, three at the most."

She nodded. "I'll miss you."

"Thanks," Angel said. "I, uh…" His voice trailed away, then he met her eyes. "I'm glad you're my friend, Sally."

"I'd rather not be your friend." There was a soft look on her face. "I'd rather be family."

He looked down, scuffing his foot on the floor, and blinked a couple of times. Family. Maybe Buffy, and maybe Spike and Sally, a family. If he couldn't have Connor, it wouldn't be so bad to try to have something, would it? Because, without Connor, he'd never be truly happy.

"I like that." He cleared his throat. "I just wanted to say that I'm going to take your advice. I think I'll see if I can give Buffy... something, anyway."

Sally stared at him for a second, then a warm smile spread across her face. She pulled him close for a second hug. "Good for you," she told him. "You won't regret it; I know you won't."

Angel smiled down at her. "We'll see."

She lightly punched his bicep. "Well, get going! What are you waiting for?"

He laughed and turned to go, lifting a hand in farewell. Sally watched him drive away, the smile still on her face. Happy, but not too happy. If anyone could walk that line, it would be Angel.

⸹

Next Chapter: Giles calls everyone to Cleveland because of a prophesied series of battles.


	6. Witness

**Witness**

⸹

August 2004

North Carolina

⸹

"Angel, hey," Buffy said, touching his wrist.

He whirled around. It was eight-thirty, just past sunset, and he had been looking around the airport's central lobby for a few minutes. "Buffy," he said, grinning. "You snuck up on me." Then he lifted her in a bear hug and twirled her around, giving her an enthusiastic kiss on the cheek.

"Good to see you, too," she said wryly, as he put her down, but she was also grinning.

"How was the flight?" he asked. "Here, let me get that for you." He reached for her luggage.

"Don't bother," she said, pulling up a collapsible handle. "It rolls. The flight was delayed a bit, so I haven't been waiting all that long."

He took the handle from her. "So, what have you been reading?"

"A book, thank you very much," she replied. Then she held up a John Grisham legal thriller.

Angel smiled. "If you want to stay by the doors, I can pull up for you in just a few minutes."

"No, that's okay. I'd rather walk with you."

At a sudden loss to do anything else, he smiled at her. "You look beautiful, Buffy. Rome agrees with you." She was beautiful, even after the long trip, and he could tell that she had been taking care of herself.

"Thanks," Buffy replied, looking almost shy at his compliment. "You're looking good, yourself."

He asked about her sister, and she told him about Dawn and school and their apartment and how much better she spoke Italian now than she ever thought she would. Angel smiled the whole time, thoroughly enjoying the normalcy of the conversation. When they were close to the truck, he unlocked it remotely.

"Big truck," Buffy said, looking at it.

"Sally's." Angel pushed down the handle and lifted the suitcase into the back of the cab. Then he lifted Buffy and placed her on the passenger seat, retooling the old, gallant gesture of lifting a lady onto her horse. "The windows in the truck are treated with a film that keeps vampires safe from the sun. We can travel during the day, so long as I have a dark place to park at the end of the journey."

"Necrotempering," Buffy said. "Giles told us about it, issued a memo and everything, so we wouldn't be caught unaware."

Angel nodded and closed her door. He willed himself to be casual as he got in the driver's seat. "Well, let's get out of here," he said, forcing his smile this time. He paid the parking fee and navigated the confusing tangle of roads around the airport in silence until he found the one he wanted.

"Buffy?" He saw her turn to him out of the corner of his eye. He had planned this ahead of time, but so much depended on her. "There's something I wanted to… I was thinking. When I'm an old, old vampire living with his regrets, I don't want one of the things I regret to be that I never got to… that I never had a chance to enjoy room service with you."

"Room service?" Her eyebrows went up in amusement and surprise.

"Yeah, room service. I, uh, got a hotel room. I thought you might like to freshen up after your flight, and then we could have room service brought up." He shrugged. "We can go from there."

Buffy realized that he didn't say 'leave from there.' She was quiet for a few seconds, mulling over his offer. "All right. That sounds good. I wouldn't mind showering and getting rid of the airplane smell."

He suppressed his relief. "Good," he said simply.

Buffy watched him as they pulled into valet parking at a surprisingly upscale hotel. Angel sauntered around the front of the truck and came to open her door for her, claiming her suitcase again. He tossed the keys to the valet and escorted her inside the lobby. She couldn't help noticing again how good he looked, much better than he had in Cleveland, healthier, and her stomach suddenly developed a case of the butterflies. Just room service, she told herself as they rode the elevator up to the seventh floor, and then we'll leave. That's all it can be.

Angel held the door to his room open for her. He had left the lights on. "Flowers?" she asked, nodding at the colorful spray on the table.

"Not roses." He hoisted her suitcase onto a luggage rack, then went to the window and opened the curtains. He turned back to her and picked up a binder from the table, holding it in front of him almost defensively. "The, uh, menu. If we order before you take a shower, the food should be here about the time you finish."

"Good thinking," she agreed. Smiling up at him, she came to the table and made her choices.

"If you want to, uh, get what you need from your suitcase, I'll call it in," Angel suggested. He watched her as he spoke on the phone, her movements, the way she tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear as she leaned over. She was so much more self-assured now than she had been when he first knew her.

He paced the length of the room, listening to the hiss of the shower. He had fed earlier, finishing the last of the blood from the cooler, and now he was so nervous, he didn't think he could eat a bite of the appetizer he'd ordered to be companionable. The sound of the shower ceased, and Angel stopped pacing long enough to doff his jacket. He almost jumped when he heard a knock at the door, then closed his eyes with relief. At least now he would have something to do besides wait.

Buffy finished drying her hair, then aimed the hairdryer at the steamy mirror. Room service. That was all. She made a face at herself. So why had she chosen extra nice undies to put on? There was no way he would ever get to see them. She put on jeans and a sweater, camouflaging the lacy underwear, and felt much more secure.

When she came out of the bathroom, Angel had just uncorked a bottle of wine. He stood still for a moment, framed by the open window behind him, and watched her. "Feel better?" he finally asked.

"Much," she agreed. "And hungry. Thanks, Angel. This was very thoughtful, a really good idea." She came over to the table, and he put down the bottle and pulled out a chair.

"To room service," Angel said, raising his glass high.

"Room service," Buffy agreed.

They ate in silence, their eyes meeting frequently across the table, and Angel found that he had an appetite after all. He poured himself more wine and lifted his eyebrows in query. After a brief hesitation, Buffy nodded, and he refilled her glass, too.

"So, how was your trip?" Buffy asked, lowering her fork.

He shrugged. "Not bad. I usually drive at night, so the amount of traffic was sort of a surprise."

"So, you left from the garage and didn't stop until you pulled up into valet parking?"

"Pretty much." He swirled the wine in the bottom of his glass. "Have you seen your father?"

Buffy looked down. "Yes," she said quietly. "Once, in Barcelona. It-it was enough."

"Is Dawn okay?"

"I think Dawn's more okay with it than I am." She nodded toward the cityscape beyond the window, changing the subject. "Charlotte is bigger than I thought it would be."

He glanced outside, nodding in agreement. "Not as big as Rome, though."

"Or L.A." She took a sip from her wineglass. "Do you miss it?"

Angel shrugged. "I miss my people. I didn't think about leaving the city. I really didn't expect to survive the strike."

"But you did."

He nodded. "What doesn't kill you…."

"Makes you stronger. Right," Buffy finished. "Ever worry that we're getting too strong, Angel?"

"I used to. You put yourself out there on the line and survive. Then you do it again, and again… You don't defeat evil, just… push it back a little."

"Was that what you did when you left L.A.?"

He shrugged. "Probably not much more than that. I hurt Wolfram and Hart, no doubt. Not a mortal wound, though."

Buffy raised her hand, as if in class. "Fought the First. Been there."

"It never seems to end."

"No." Buffy looked out the window, swishing the wine in her glass. "It never ends."

"It can be worth it," Angel mused, staring into his own wineglass. "If you're doing it for someone you love."

She shifted her gaze to the remains of the meal. "How often does that happen? It's usually something much more nebulous," she said, giving him a sardonic look, "like the world."

He smiled in agreement. "Poor us, huh?"

Buffy met his eyes and smiled, too. "Yeah. Poor us." She glanced at the interior of the room. "I figure one of us has to say it, so I will. That's a gi-normous bed."

Angel looked down. "It is. I asked for a king-sized bed, and the hotel really delivered."

She stared at him for a long moment. "Why?"

He met her wary gaze. "I have another regret, Buffy. I never got to be at your side when you woke up. I'd like to stay the night, if you don't mind."

She stood from the table, shaking her head to rid herself of a memory of what he – what Angelus had said when they first saw each other after that night. "I… I can't share a bed with you, Angel." She shook her head again, more vehemently. "I don't have a lot of control where you're concerned. I-it wouldn't be safe."

"Actually, it would." He looked down. "It's safe. I've done it before… since that night, without losing my soul."

Buffy stared at him, stunned. Her head turned to the side, but her eyes never left him. "You… slept with…."

He stood up, too, turning to look out of the window. The pain in her eyes was too much. He knew that pain, but he'd always known she wouldn't be celibate after him. It was a new idea to her, so he tried to explain.

"The first time, I didn't care anymore. I'd been in L.A. for almost two years, you were moving on with your life, and I just didn't care. I thought I would lose my soul, and I would have welcomed it. It was a dark time." He glanced over his shoulder. "But I didn't lose my soul. There've been a couple of others since then." He shrugged, staring at her reflection in the glass. Her arms were crossed tightly over her chest, as if she were cold. "It isn't the sex. Our first time… I didn't see anything beyond you, Buffy. I was living in the moment, and I was perfectly happy." He turned around and met her eyes. "I don't do that anymore. I don't have… expectations. I agree, if we stay here, share this bed, we'll make love. I'll be happy, you know I will. But it won't be perfect. I'm not asking for cookies, Buffy. We love each other, and we can share this time. But I know we won't be together long. This… we can never be perfectly happy, and in a bitter sort of way, that's good. 'No ties, no responsibilities,' I think you said."

He couldn't read the look in her eyes. "Angel, that's just it: we love each other. That makes all the difference, you know it does. Don't tempt me."

Angel went to the bed and bent to pick up something from beneath it. "I brought protection." He half-smiled and held up the stakes.

She looked horrified. "How can you ask me to do that," she asked, tears filling her eyes, "again?"

He strode across the short distance to her and put his hands on her arms. "God, I didn't think… I don't want to die, Buffy. I would never… I just wanted to reassure you. I'd do it myself, if it came to that. I'd know, have enough time to–"

"Was it Faith?" She was staring at his chest.

"Fai– No, Buffy. Never Faith. I don't think of her that way." He gave her a twisted grin. "No slayers. Not even anyone totally human." He took a chance and enfolded her in his arms. "Not Cordy." After a moment, she returned the embrace.

"Angel, you're insane." Buffy sniffled, then looked up at him. "You'd risk your soul to sleep with me?"

"No." He looked down at her mouth, then at her eyes. "I'd risk my soul to wake up beside you, Buffy."

Her lips parted, and it was all the invitation Angel needed. They had spent whole nights kissing, it seemed, and he missed the feel of her mouth. Their conversation, their surroundings, their fate fell away.

After long minutes, Buffy pulled her face away from his. Her hand slid from his neck to cover her mouth. "Angel. Oh my God." She looked at his chest. "I can't believe we're doing this. I never, ever let myself think, not really, not even for a moment–"

He slid his hands from her waist to her shoulders, pulling her closer. "I have, but I've been afraid. Plus, I haven't seen you except during crises and times of apocalypse. Not exactly romantic circumstances."

She gave a shaky laugh. "No, they haven't been, have they?" She glanced at the large bed. "This is probably the most romantic setting we've ever had."

He gave her a grave look, thinking of one twenty-four hour period that she didn't remember. "Yes, I guess it is." He sighed. "Buffy, if you want, we can leave now." Angel lowered his lashes. "I won't be mad or anything. I'm used to the disappointment."

"I think we both must be mad," Buffy replied, shaking her head. She touched his face with her hand, then slid her fingers around the back of his neck. "I want this, too." She stood on tiptoe and lifted her face to find his for another kiss. Then she slid out of his embrace and went to turn down the covers. She looked back at him, almost shyly.

Remembering a passionate encounter that she didn't gave him an unfair advantage, and he moved close to her and took her hand, running his thumb across hers. Buffy looked at their hands, then up into his clear brown eyes, her expression suddenly serious. Angel lowered his head to kiss her again, and she met him, all shyness and doubt gone.

⸹

"There you are, honey." Sally peered over the edge of the couch, where Spike lay reading a book. "I haven't seen you all night."

Since he had unlocked her at eight o'clock, he had in fact been avoiding her. He was avoiding a lot, truth be told. There was the puzzling lack of passion to their private greeting yesterday, leaving him wondering where the urgency had gotten to. And, of course, Angel was in proximity to Buffy. He was trying hard not to think about that. "Uh, I've been around."

She nodded, then held up an empty glass jar. "I was just thinking: it's the end of August and I don't know where the summer's gone. Do you want to go catch fireflies with me?"

He sat up, his brows drawn together. "Catch fireflies? Why?"

"Not for any reason. Just for fun, just because they're pretty. People do catch them and sell them to researchers, though. What's the word… bioluminescence, that's it. I swear all the slow ones have been culled. They're harder to catch now. But I think we can take 'em. You, me… the little buggers don't have a chance."

"Are you sure you want me to help?" he asked, meeting her eyes squarely.

"I'm sure," she agreed, rolling her eyes. "I'm a big girl, can tie my own shoes and everything. I think I can spend an hour in your company without dying of embarrassment. Today, anyhow."

"Okay." He put the book face down on the couch and stood. "If you're sure." These last words had a tinge of sarcasm.

"Hey," she said, recognizing the book. "The Riverside Shakespeare. Impressive," she added, pulling a face.

"Used to love Shakespeare," he said, sighing. Then he shrugged. "It's a requirement, I guess. British." He indicated himself with a casual gesture.

"I like to see it performed."

"Well, I'm reading the sonnets."

"That's right. You like poetry." She glanced back at him as they went into the kitchen. "You like the way he plays with words?"

"I like the way the words can make you feel." Spike shrugged again, as if embarrassed.

"Even with the Riverside footnotes, I don't understand all the poems," Sally admitted, holding the screen door for him.

"You don't have to understand them. The words alone just make you feel."

"You're more soulful than I am," Sally said, punning. "Poetry doesn't usually do that for me. Like _Leaves of Grass_ , which I guess I should love because I'm American, but I don't. W. H. Auden, now there's a poet."

Spike shook his head in disagreement. "It's not poetry if it doesn't rhyme."

"But his words speak to me, whereas my mind just flinches when it hears 'again' rhymed with 'Spain.'"

"Typical American. When I hear a 'poem' that doesn't rhyme, I spend my mental time trying to come up with rhymes."

"Well, I reckon you've got a more sophisticated understanding of it than I do."

He shook his head. "Just old-fashioned."

"I like old-fashioned." Sally smiled at him. "Well, let's go catch lightnin' bugs," she said in a brisk, exaggerated Southern accent. She looked around the yard, then ran to where a firefly drifted upwards, easing her hand beneath it like a landing strip. She cupped the little insect in her hand, then popped it into the jar. Spike was already beside her, a firefly held between his curved palms. "Impressive," she said again, opening the lid for him.

He gave her a lazy grin. "You have no idea. Yet." It sounded slightly forced, to him.

She started to answer, thought better of it. "Here," she said instead, handing him the jar, and went in hunt of another winking ascent. It was after eleven when they stopped, the jar aglow with the bugs. Spike had leapt lightly into an apple tree in pursuit of a particularly erratic firefly. He caught it and grinned down at Sally in triumph. She stood beneath with the captured insects, her head thrown back so she could see him among the leafy branches. Her answering smile faded, and all he could see was the paleness of her face and neck before she turned away. When she was clear, he jumped down, landing lightly on the balls of his feet.

Sally had the lid ready. "Last one," she said. "They're pretty much up in the trees for the night, anyway."

Spike looked at her sharply. "What?"

"What 'what?'" She replied, closing the jar on their latest captive. She handed it to him again and began walking back toward the house.

"That's a new tone of voice."

She shook her head, averting her face. "I don't know what you mean."

He stood under the apple tree a moment, watching her walk away. She made a mid-course correction and headed for the empty tobacco shed instead of the house. He followed her, his earlier uneasiness forgotten in the face of his friend's apparent distress.

She hadn't turned on the lights, just walked to the swing. Sally held the ropes, with one knee resting on the seat of the swing in front of her. Her head was bowed.

"What's wrong?" Spike said from the doorway.

"Nothing." She glanced back at him and saw the jar. "Let them go. The fireflies, I mean. They don't live long. This stage of their lives, they don't eat or anything. They just float around, looking for a mate."

"We spent an hour or more collecting the bloody things," he grumbled, having to take a breath to do so, and started to undo the lid. Instead, he walked into the building and stood next to her, putting a hand beneath her chin. She let him raise her face, her lips firming as she met his eyes.

"I thought I smelled… Why are you crying?"

She shook her head, moving away from his touch. "Because I… women just do, sometimes." She shrugged. "Don't worry about it. Here," she said, clearing her throat and reaching for the jar.

He didn't let go. "Did I do something?"

"No. No, Spike."

"Did I not do something?"

This earned him a smile. "You do know your women, don't you, honey?" She let go of the swing and walked to the other end of the shed, unbarred the door, and opened it. "It's just… me. I'll be fine in a little while. Here, let them go."

He joined her at the door and unscrewed the lid, putting the jar on the ground just outside the shed. The insects began crawling onto the rim and floating off into the night. "You might as well tell me, love. You know I'll get it out of you sooner or later."

She watched the fireflies as they made their escape. "Why does it matter?"

"Because whatever it was, it made you cry. I don't like to see that."

"Later, then. We'll talk after things are back to normal, once y'all get Buffy to Cleveland."

"It has to do with Buffy, then?" Sally met his eyes, and he realized that he had heard that tone of voice before, in L.A., when he and Angel had eavesdropped on her conversation with Jim. She had been telling the medic about Henry's death.

"No. It doesn't have anything to do with Buffy." She stood straighter and deliberately changed her expression, falling into the exaggerated Southern drawl again. "That dog don't want to hunt, Spike. Leave it under the porch."

"No." He said it flatly. "Would you let me be, if I were sad like this?"

She thought about it, which surprised him. "I'd like to think that I would, but, no, probably not. I'm pushy that way, wanting to know people's problems so I can fix it, make it all better."

"So," he said, taking her hands, "tell me, and I'll fix it and make it all better." He watched her face with growing unease as she struggled not to smile, then not to cry again.

"Do you think I can outrun you, Spike?"

His eyebrows drew together in bewilderment. "No," he said slowly. "You could probably knock me out, though."

She glanced away, clearly angry. "I'd never hit you."

"You haven't known me long enough." He thought it was a pretty funny comeback.

Sally pulled her hands away, made an irate noise, and walked past the swing and almost to the opposite door, her head down again. "So, I can't outrun you, and you aren't going to let it go. That about right?" She looked at him across the distance. "Fine. Anytime."

"Anytime… what?" Spike asked.

She dropped her gaze. "The Hemi, the Hurley shifter, high octane… anytime." When he didn't say anything, she put the heels of her hands over her eyes in frustration. "The keys, Spike. I'm giving back the keys."

What hadn't ignited last night did so now, and the memory of how she looked beneath him, her eyes unfocused with passion, suddenly came to him. Then his dazed look was replaced by a narrow one. "What changed, pet?"

She shook her head warningly. "I believe that's my line."

He was across the length of the building in a blur, lowering his head to put it on a level with hers. "What changed, Sally?"

She looked away, did not move away. "Times have changed, and I have to change with them, I guess. I can't expect the same kind of relationship. I mean, I'm a demon. I won't be getting married again. The church would explode or something. You know, unholy matrimony." She shrugged, a bitter smile twisting her lips. "It was a new idea to me, that's all. I've had time to think, now."

"Sally." His tone made her name a threat.

She did move away then, looking at the far door. Some of the fireflies had flown into the shed and were twinkling in the rafters. "You and Angel aren't going to stay forever, Spike, no matter how much I'd like you to. If we don't at least try, I'll always regret it. That would be a long time to live with regret. I have an idea of what I'm missing." She gave him a faint smile. "I did intend to buy sexy black undies to wear before this happened."

He stood up a bit, distracted by the visual image forming in his mind for a second, then moved in front of her once again, an expression close to a snarl now on his face. His hands on her shoulders, though, were gentle, and the unstated control underlying this was disconcerting to them both. "Nice try, but no. You don't lie to me, Sally, remember?" He leaned down again, waited for her to meet his gaze. "Now, tell me: what changed?" There was a look in her eyes that he had sometimes seen on his prey, when they were too worn from running and hiding to try to fight anymore. He let go of her shoulders, but she didn't look away.

"The apple tree." She hadn't taken breath, and her voice was a whisper. "I looked up at you; you were smiling." She shrugged. "I knew. No reason left." Her mouth trembled, then she firmed her chin. "Wish you could have been like Angel, like a brother."

Like a brother… Spike filed that away for later. He stared at her, and he knew he must look frightening. Even Drusilla had the presence of mind to flee when he was feeling such strong emotion, squealing as she sought shelter until it passed. Sally didn't flinch. "Tell me."

"I love you." She breathed in, her face hardening. "There. You have all the power, Spike." Her jaw clenched, and she finally looked away.

Power… he shunted that thought aside, too. She loved him. That was difficult to process. He'd wanted to hear it, but found it too big to contemplate. Instead, he cupped her face with his hand, turning it back toward him. "That wasn't so hard, was it? The truth?" he asked.

Sally kept her eyes averted. "Yes. Yes, it was. That may be the scariest thing I've ever said." The sadness was back in her voice.

"Why?"

She did look at him then, a difficult emotion burning in her eyes. "Because you don't love me."

His lips parted, and he tilted his head slightly to one side. She was right. He cared about her, but he wasn't in love with her. He didn't consider lying to her. "But you'll come to my bed anyway?" he finally said. Sally lifted her chin and nodded, just once. "Why?" He took her by the shoulders again. "Doesn't seem like you, Sally. Why?"

She broke free suddenly, easily. "I'm fixin' to tell you," she snapped, her eyes blazing for a moment. He realized then that he had never seen her get really angry, but it didn't make him uneasy. He knew her demon didn't fuel her emotions.

Sally took a step away, rubbing at the back of her neck with one hand, tense, her eyes now closed. "Either you'll never love me, or you will eventually." She shrugged, the momentary fire banked again. "If you don't, then I'll get tired of waiting and end it." She looked at him speculatively. "But I won't have regrets, and I expect I'll have some very fond memories. Either way, I promise you won't be hurt."

"Hurt? Me?" He straightened up. "What about you?" This was the crux of it. He might not love her, but she was a friend. If it worked out half as well as things had with Anya – at least up to the time they left the Magic Box – this would be brilliant.

Sally's eyes were clear as she looked up at him. "If you aren't willing to take chances, you might as well be dead." She didn't make a play on the word for a change.

He shook his head slowly. "I don't want the power."

She looked away, then down at her feet, her motions jerky. "All right." Sally's voice was quiet, composed. "I appreciate you telling me. I'll just…" She trailed off and gestured vaguely toward the house.

He caught her by the arm as she walked past. "Wait. What do you think just happened?"

She didn't look up. "It's okay. If you don't think you'll ever… it's okay. Like I said, I appreciate you telling me now."

"I didn't say that."

After a moment, his words seemed to sink in. She lifted her eyes, a sudden realization dawning. "Oh, Spike, I'm sorry. You've always been so… it never occurred to me that you would want to wait."

"Wait?" A bitter smile tugged at his mouth. No, he wasn't inclined to be celibate even a minute longer. "That's not it." He sighed and let go of her arm. "I just don't want to have all the power."

Sally shrugged. "So… what now?"

A predator by nature, he moved in close. Spike looked down at her. "Ignition." He pulled her back against his frame, almost the way he had in the parking lot of the honky-tonk. But he knew her body better now, and his hands were more aggressive.

Sally took an involuntary breath, then slipped from him deftly, capturing his hands and curving her body far from his. There was no violence in the movement. "Last chance, Spike. Do you want to wait until you've seen Buffy? So you know–"

"I know." He slid his hand around one of hers and turned it, moved his body against her palm, not letting his mind be anywhere but here. "Three days, three weeks, three months. Still me. This, still for you." His eyes were half-closed, but he saw her swallow. He stepped away from her, pulling her with him by their clasped hands. He felt the swing on the back of his thighs and walked backwards until he was leaning his weight against it. Sally was facing him now, and he lifted her hand to his lips. "Do you have any… boundaries?"

She stared at her fingertips against his mouth, then lifted her eyes in sudden understanding. "Oh! No, I got over that a long time ago," she assured him, shrugging. She gave him a grave look. "Do you have boundaries?"

He laughed out loud. "If we find any, I'll be sure to tell you." Sally, predictably, blushed, ducking her head, and he chuckled again. "Anything else, pet?" He eased his feet forward, between hers, changing the angle of his body as he leaned against the swing. Oh, this had possibilities.

She lifted her head and nodded, serious. "I don't want to taste you, your blood, I mean. Is it okay if I don't? Do vampires always have to–"

Spike raised his eyebrows. "No, it's fine, love. Because of this?" He touched her collarbone where he and Angel had cleaned the wound.

Sally still didn't look up. "I've never done that. Me, I mean. Maybe it stirs up my demon, but… it mostly frightens me. I liked it."

"The bloodlust?" When she nodded, he let go of her fingers, feeling almost stunned as when he'd learned she'd been faithful through sixty years of marriage. "You'd never fed before? Not even on Henry when you…?" She met his eyes as she shook her head. "Maybe we need a safety word."

"A what?"

"Never mind." He regarded her a moment, thinking dark thoughts of all that he could teach her, already knowing she would follow the desire he aroused to wherever he directed it.

"That was scary, knowing your thoughts. I'm not saying never, just… Maybe we could see what we can do just as two people, to start. I liked what we managed in the 'bleeding parking lot,'" she said, mimicking his accent. "You didn't have to bite me to… get me off. That was… a bonus."

He stared at her as if seeing her anew. "You're brave, I'll give you that. You're marching into this with your eyes open."

"It's not war, Spike," she said, sounding perturbed.

He gave her a grim smile. "What's that old song? 'Love is a Battlefield?' We've already talked about power." Sally's brows drew together, and she touched his face gently. It took him a moment to place the expression on her face.

"Does it feel that way when I touch you? Like we're at war?" she asked, compassion in her voice, too. He grasped her hand and pulled it away from his face, his features hardening. Sally's gaze didn't waver. "Does it? The times I've held you?"

Because she was honest with him, he placed her hand back on his cheek and answered truthfully. "No. The opposite, maybe."

She let her hand drop away, and she backed up a step. "Spike–" She stopped abruptly, searching his eyes. "I know you're older than I am, so I'm not trying to…"

"Just spit it out," he suggested, impatient.

"Can you handle this?"

He lifted a sardonic eyebrow. "If we ever get to the end of the talking portion of the evening, I plan to handle quite a bit."

"Well, that's all I have to say." There was a hint of a smile at the corners of her mouth again.

"Lean against me," he invited. She paused, then lifted her chin a bit, as if accepting a challenge. Putting her hands on the chains beneath his, she carefully placed one knee on the swing by his hips, bowing her body against his. Spike heard a small purring noise escape her throat at the contact. Smiling with a great deal of satisfaction, he slid his arms around her. "Now, where were we?"

"Fourth gear," Sally suggested.

"Hmm," he said, low, almost chuckling. "That's not what I remember."

⸹

"Buffy?" Angel sat up a bit against the pillows, studying her face by the light of the city outside the window. "What's wrong? You're – Why are you crying?"

She wiped her face with the heel of her hand. "It's just… it's a revelation." She frowned suddenly. "A surprise, I mean. I didn't know how good this could be."

"Aw, shucks," said Angel, with mock self-effacement. He watched her closely. "The first time, Buffy, your first time… I held back, to be–"

"To be gentle, I know," she finished. She rolled over and pressed her body against his, giving him a hug that caused him to wince. "Sorry." She touched his face. "You're still gentle. Angel, I feel like I'm thawing. After being cold for so long, I'm feeling again."

He thought of what she said about feeling too strong, thought of the irony that it would be his body that thawed her, as he gazed into her eyes. "I wish… I'm sorry you ever felt cold, Buffy." She started to answer, but he saw so much feeling in her eyes, a frightening amount of emotion. He put his fingers across her lips. "Shh. Don't say it. This is good, right here, right now."

Buffy nodded. She understood, thinking of the stakes underneath the bed. "It is good."

He pulled her close and smiled against her hair. "Sleepy?"

She shook her head. "You?"

"As a matter of fact," he said, moving against her, "I'm not."

"Ooh," she said. "More good."

⸹

"Wow," Sally said, her voice barely more than a sigh. "What do you call that?"

"The, um, missionary position," Spike said, his own voice uncharacteristically thin. He stared down at her, an odd look in his eyes. After making valiant efforts and nearly driving himself to distraction, he'd given up any thought of consummating their relationship on the narrow swing. He had brought her to a point where her orgasms were nearly continual, but he wanted to bury himself inside of her, to dominate. The tarp that Sally had used to lie on as she changed oil was the closest alternative. After that, it had been shockingly quick and utterly glorious, a unique and unmanning experience.

He was terrified.

"Remind me to send more money to the missionaries," she said, tracing the line of his jaw.

Spike threw himself down next to her. They lay together, watching the few fireflies still trying to find their way out of the rafters. His mind was mercifully blank. After a moment, Sally lifted his hand to her lips and placed a kiss in his palm. He hadn't realized their fingers were still laced together.

His conscience pricked at him. He knew what she meant now, about whether he could handle it. She wasn't one of his kind, not really. Every attempt he'd made to hurl them into the abyss had been met with the same resistance, pulling him back to reality, grounding him with love. He could feel it in her touch, see it in her eyes, even hear it in her voice when she'd laughed in abandon with what he made her feel. His own pleasure had been so complete, almost in self-defense, that he hadn't proven anything to her about the sexual superiority of a vampire. Yet she was satisfied; she wasn't waiting for his next move or plotting her own. He knew this as fact; he hadn't been able to keep their bloodlink entirely closed. This was lovemaking or something close to it, and he wondered if it was because he now had a soul that he could tell the difference.

"I'm sorry," he said abruptly. "This isn't where I wanted, I mean, on the ground." He shrugged.

"Do you hear me complaining?"

"You deserve better, is all."

"There's better?" When he gave her an exasperated look, she just grinned. "Honey, we could have been floating in outer space for all I noticed."

"We should find a proper bed," he suggested, trying to find himself in this new reality. "Your bed, in fact. It has chains, Tolliver," he forced a seductive tone.

"I'm pretty much bored with bondage," she said, amused. "Can you think of something else?"

He looked into her clear eyes, effortlessly thinking of at least six ways to fill them with murky knowledge. He could warp her in the same ways he had been warped. She would let him. He'd done it before, after all. That's all he was fit for, to hurt other people, to take advantage….

Her gaze sharpened, and she squeezed his fingers. "Hey. We can stay right here, honey."

He looked away, letting his gaze track the progress of one of the fireflies. This would be the time, wouldn't it? But the words didn't come. His body was more than willing to offer her what his heart couldn't, though. He felt his fear ratchet up another notch at the thought. He didn't want to be the one who used someone's love….

Spike sat up abruptly, pushing his palms against the sides of his head, tired of resisting what his implacable soul was telling him. "You were right."

Sally sat up, too. "Right about what?" She put a cool hand against his back. He didn't jerk away, but it was a near thing, and she felt the muscles twitch beneath her fingers.

"I can't handle this… like this." He gritted his teeth and forced himself to twist around to face her. "I've never been touched… Could feel it in your touch." What did sex mean to him now? He still didn't have an answer.

"Love?" Her voice was tentative.

After a long moment, he nodded. "I don't… I can't meet you halfway."

"I can come to you."

"And I'll just retreat further." He sighed. "I'm useless, Sally. This is too scary for words." God, if only he hadn't followed her into the shed. Or, better, if he had taken her in the parking lot of the honkytonk, lustful and meaningless.

"Take your time, honey."

"Time isn't going to help. Trust me on that."

"Afraid of the intimacy?" Her voice was neutral, and he realized that she knew he had struggled to keep their minds from touching.

Spike shook his head. "No. If you touch me with… like that again, I'm afraid I'll… I might snap."

"I'm trying, Spike, but I don't understand. You don't mean… go crazy?"

"No." He reached for his jeans at the edge of the tarpaulin and stood, dressing quickly. "That I might hurt you, panic and lash out." Might see her face, full of hurt and disgust, the way he still saw –

She stared up at him, naked and vulnerable, and her words were at odds with the image. "I'm not easy to hurt."

He rolled his eyes, hating himself even as he did. He made his voice very gentle to compensate. "I would loathe myself for trying."

Sally drew her knees up to her chest and wrapped her arms around them protectively. "I didn't realize how dam–" She stopped herself and dropped her gaze. "Turn around, Spike. Please."

Damaged. That's the word she'd stopped on. It might have been 'damned;' he was both. Spike did as she asked, gazing into the darkness outside as he listened to her sliding back into her clothes. He flinched when she slid her arms around his waist, and she rested her forehead between his shoulderblades.

After a moment, she sighed, then took a breath. "Is this the first time since your soul… came back?" She felt his shoulders lift, and she sighed again. "There are all sorts of things I'd like to say, honey, about..."

"I deserve to hear them."

"No. No, you don't. I was there, too, remember? I could feel you hesitate, but I didn't want to stop, either, since it was so good, and..." She turned her head and pressed her cheek against his back. "The first time after Henry got back from the Army, I cried, Spike. I was so ashamed of what I was, I could hardly bear for him to touch me. So, maybe I kind of understand what you're feeling."

Misunderstanding him. His face tightened in a rictus of pain and self-loathing for a few seconds.

"Unworthy, I'm guessing." Her arms slid away from him, leaving him.

"Something like that," he said after a moment of damning his bloody soul. This should have been gleeful, should have been fun. He stood taller and made himself turn around to face her. "Sally, I know what this meant to you, to do this. I'm not making light–"

The same difficult emotion flared again in her eyes. "Don't."

His jaw tightened, but he nodded. "I'm sorry."

Sally took in a long breath, but in the end only said, "We're back to friends, I guess. That's enough."

"Is it?" His voice was harsh.

"I've still got your back, Spike."

He nodded again, firming his jaw, grateful that she wasn't going to push for more. "And I've got yours."

"Good." Sally seemed to slump a bit. "Now, if you don't mind, I'm going to bed, have myself another good cry, stop being…" After a moment, she took his hand without looking at his face. "It was amazing, honey. Thank you." She started to say something else, then shrugged, letting go of his cold fingers. "'Night."

Spike watched her cross the yard, noticing with chagrin how stiffly she was walking. Years, she had said, and he hadn't been gentle.

He let out a long sigh. Couldn't figure this out before you had her, could you? Then go after her, a less noble part of him whispered, wanting to sink into her responsive body for the rest of the night, wanting to teach her things darker than the night. Give her what she wants, tell her what she wants to hear. Why not? You've already shown how little a soul matters, shagging without love, using hers. His lip curled in self-disgust, then he made his expression smooth, exerted his considerable will, and walked into the darkness.

⸹

Buffy opened her eyes unwillingly the next morning around nine o'clock. Angel's dark head was next to hers, sharing the same pillow. He woke as she moved, and she watched as remembrance flooded his face, lit his eyes.

"Good morning."

"It is." He smiled at her, then enveloped her in a tight embrace. "Thank you."

"For what?"

"For letting this happen. For letting me wake up beside you." And you'll remember this time, he added silently.

He saw tears threaten in her eyes for a moment. "My pleasure." Then she grinned and touched the tip of her nose to his. "Your pleasure, too, I hope."

His expression grew serious. "Yes. Probably too much. I was thinking of staying another night, but, frankly, I'm enjoying being here with you more than I thought."

"So, what? We shower and get on the road?" Angel lowered his head and rested it on her chest. She could feel him nod. "And if we spend just a little more time here…?"

He lifted his head, a smile shining in his dark eyes. "If only to ward off the crushing loneliness and misery for another hour?" He raised his eyebrows. "I'm willing."

"I can tell," Buffy said, raising her own eyebrows.

Angel smiled at her, then ruthlessly told himself that he would most likely never see her like this again. His happiness curbed, he went to work to increase hers.

⸹

"There," Sally said, raking the bits of bell pepper into the rest of the salad. "Everything's ready." She rinsed the knife and her fingers, dried them, then surveyed the kitchen with her hands on her hips.

"The cot's set up in my room," Spike reported as he came in from the hallway.

"I wouldn't bet on Angel staying in the same room, anyway," she said. "I think he'll take the couch."

"You're probably right," Spike agreed, sighing dramatically. "Won't be able to trust himself alone with me."

She moved to the side of the counter, away from him. "Be nice," she said automatically. "He isn't here to defend himself."

"How much longer do you reckon they'll be?"

She shrugged, then lifted her shoulders. "It doesn't take more than two hours from where they were when Angel called, at least with me at the wheel. We're at that time-honored 'any minute' stage."

He nodded, looking away from her. "Right."

"Did you get any sleep?" The question was normal, sounding no different than it would have a day ago. He remembered how she had been casual around him for weeks, keeping the spark of attraction tamped down.

"Uh, a bit." He looked down at his boots. "You? Sleep all right, I mean?"

"Yeah. Sleep can be an escape, you know. At least until you dream."

"Bad dreams?"

Sally shook her head slowly. "No."

He met her eyes, then looked up at the ceiling, his jaw working. "Sally," he began, but stopped, jumping a little. She had moved silently to stand in front of him. Without looking away, she slid her arms around his waist and embraced him. There was nothing sexual in her touch. After a moment, he closed his eyes and wrapped his arms around her in turn, trying to match the tenderness of her embrace. They held each other in silence, no breath taken, for almost five minutes.

"Why?"

Sally jerked in surprise at the sound of his voice. She leaned away from him. "I'm not going to give this up. I still get to hug you. That's my right as your friend, regardless of what happened last night." Staring at a patch of the black fabric of his t-shirt, her lips twisted in a small smile. "Plus, I needed a hug myself."

His arms tightened. "Tell me."

She shrugged. "Seeing Buffy. She wasn't happy with what I said in Cleveland. Worrying about you. Other things I'd rather not mention in the light of day."

"What things?"

She looked up at him, knowing now that he would give her no quarter. She tried anyway. "Honey, think. Are you sure you want to hear this?" His look was implacable, and she sighed. "Being around you and Angel, I'm learning more about what it is to be a vampire. I like to think I'm totally separate from my demon, but now I wonder." She pulled against his arms, but he didn't let go, so she put her head against his chest instead, hiding that way. "You know how you get a certain idea of who you are, a self-image? I've always been really proud that no one knows I'm," she ducked her head a bit lower, "a tiger in the bedroom. I got to have it both ways, be the good wife and the wanton woman."

"Wanton?" He couldn't help it; it was such an old-fashioned word. She bumped her head against his sternum. "Sorry. Go on."

"So, both wanton and virtuous. The virtue is my own, but how much of the wanton do I owe to the demon? I've turned down other men for sixty-three years, until you. I'm sorry, Spike, but I knew you weren't a safe bet for the happily-ever-after. It didn't stop me, but it should have. What if it wasn't me who wanted you that badly? What if…" her voice faded for a moment, came back smaller, "what if there's another, someday? I mean, I don't want to be celibate forever. What does that make me? Or is it even me at all?"

"Speaking as the only man who knows," he told her, telling his soul to sod off, this wasn't about it, making his voice sure, "and the man who waited weeks, the demon has nothing to do with the wanton." He grimaced a bit. "If we weren't friends, if I didn't care about you, I would have lied to you, just to get in your bed last night. That's how tempted I was, partly to see if I could handle it, but mostly to get laid. I wish I were a better man, Tolliver. The blame falls to me."

"No, it doesn't." Her brows drew together. "I'm an adult; I make my own decisions. But thank you." She pulled away a bit so she could look up at him. "It's always nice to know who you are."

"So I hear." He stopped, then let out most of his breath in a sigh. "And that's not all I hear."

"Company's arrived," Sally agreed, hearing the truck engine. She moved away from him, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear. Spike held the door for her, and they stood in the shelter of the screened porch as they watched Angel pull the truck in a wide circle and park beneath the tarp that still stretched from the roof. Buffy waved at them from the truck, grinning.

Sally held the door for the blond woman. "Come on in, Buffy. It's good to see you again." Buffy was surprised when Sally hugged her, but she didn't show it. Sally moved aside so that the Slayer could greet Spike, but she resolutely didn't watch them embrace. She continued to hold the door for Angel, who moved up the steps with Buffy's luggage.

He stopped on the top step, and Sally raised her eyebrows in query. At Angel's sheepish look, her grin widened. She plucked one of the suitcases from his hand and slid an arm around his waist, giving him an exuberant hug. "Good to have you back safe."

"Good to be back." He glanced at Spike and Buffy, noting their intense embrace, then met Sally's eyes again with wry Irish humor.

"How was your trip?" Spike was asking Buffy as he held open the door to the kitchen.

"Fine." She walked into the house. "Something smells good."

"I hope you're hungry," Sally said. "There's catfish, blackened or broiled, garden salad, and fresh-baked bread." She smiled at Buffy. "We can take your luggage on back; Angel doesn't know it, but he's giving up his room for you."

Buffy turned and shot him a questioning glance. Angel shrugged.

"Sally's cot is set up for you in my room," Spike told him. "Or there's always the couch."

"Couch sounds good," Angel said. Spike's lips twitched, and he turned to share a grin with Sally. She wasn't looking at him.

⸹

The four sat around the table long after Buffy had finished eating, the three vampires nursing blood in the opaque glasses Sally had set out more for their comfort than Buffy's. Spike and Buffy told Sunnydale stories, Angel and Sally mostly listening. With the Slayer present, none of the stories veered onto uncomfortable topics. After a while, Sally got up and cleared the table, cleaning the kitchen unobtrusively.

"So I walk in, and Giles is standing there, pointy hat and robes and everything, looking like a poor man's Dumbledore."

"Did it have stars on it?"

"The robe and the hat."

Angel chuckled and moved his arm so Sally could top off his drink. "I wish I'd seen that."

"I should have gotten Polaroids," Buffy said, grinning. "I mean, just for blackmail purposes alone."

"What would you ever want to blackmail Rupert for?" Spike asked. "Lessons on how to be boring?" He held his glass across the table toward Sally.

"Oh, come on. Giles isn't that boring. Not to people his own age." Buffy shrugged.

"He's boring to people my age. He could win a tournament for boring, pet."

Angel looked speculatively at Sally as she left the table with the now empty quart jar, then at Buffy. "Speaking of a tournament," he said, "Spike said the Turok-Han were as strong as you." He seesawed his hands. "Slayer versus pure demon… think we can get you two to arm wrestle?"

Buffy froze, her face a mask. Angel had no right to mention the Turok-Han; he hadn't been there, hadn't faced even one of those inhuman killers, much less an army. Sally had turned to stare at him in consternation from halfway across the kitchen. She met Buffy's eyes, relieved to see the other woman was just as unhappy with this suggestion. "Buffy's stronger." Sally's voice was flat. "She's taken out Turok-Han before, right? Good is stronger than evil." She pivoted on her heel and continued to the far side of the room. "Thank God."

"I don't know. Might be a good idea. Maybe there could be some kind of oil involved," Spike offered, giving Buffy a sidelong look, hoping to break her from the obvious memories of the final battle. She let her head fall back, then laughed reluctantly. Angel looked between them, then swiveled in his chair to raise an eyebrow at Sally, who shrugged and swooshed a hand over her head.

"I don't get it," Angel complained.

"I think you are getting it, mate," Spike said. He drained his glass and gave Buffy and Angel a knowing look, then rose from the table. "Think I'll go outside for a bit, now it's dark." The phone rang, and he paused, then lifted it from the cradle and tossed the handset to Sally.

"Sally Tolliver speaking," she said, holding the phone to her ear, more surprise on her face than in her voice. She listened for a moment. "Yes. Hold on just a second." She put her hand over the mouthpiece. "Spike, could you put this on speakerphone?"

Giles' voice filled the room. "Everyone's there? Buffy, Spike, Angel?"

"Good evening, Charlie," Spike said wryly.

"What? Oh. Good, then. I need you all to be here, however."

"Something big?" Buffy asked.

"Yes, rather."

"What's the sitch?"

"Apocalypse. Of course."

"What else?" Buffy folded her arms across her chest.

"I got a rare volume of prophecies a few days ago. I'm still translating, but it seems that we have twelve chances… Well, let me read: 'Those who fight for the humans will have as many as twelve opportunities to defeat the horde, and can stop the ending of days at any of these times. If the horde can stand against the humans twelve times, on the thirteenth, the Old Ones will sanctify their efforts by returning from the mouth of Hell.'" His voice died away, leaving a changed atmosphere in the small kitchen.

"When?" Buffy's tone was unyielding.

"Imminent," Giles said. "Days, if that."

"We're on our way."

"Good, then. I'll expect you before morning." He hung up, and the dial tone was loud in the otherwise silent room.

Buffy twisted her head to one side. "What were you saying about Giles being boring?" She stood from the table and pushed her chair in. "I'll go get my luggage."

"We'll pack," Angel agreed. "It won't take long."

"Twelve opportunities," Spike mused, changing direction and heading toward the hallway, too. "Excessive, innit? Prophecies don't usually give us a snowball's chance."

They met back in the kitchen, Buffy bringing her last suitcase into the room, the two men with half-full duffel bags. Sally was shoveling ice over quart jars of blood that filled a large cooler. She gave them a wan smile, closed the lid, and carried it out to the truck. They did a fireman's brigade with the luggage, and once the last piece was in, Sally stretched a cargo net across the bed.

"Anybody need to go to the bathroom?" she asked brightly, looking up at the three champions.

"I guess that'd be me," Buffy said. She brushed past Angel, who stood in the doorway. He watched her for a second, then turned to Sally.

"Sally, you take care, okay? We'll call–"

"No need," she interrupted. "I'm going. I'm driving, in fact." Spike, hearing this, glanced down into the truck and saw the cot legs. She must have been getting ready even before Giles finished talking.

Angel shook his head and looked down at Spike, who stood below him on the steps, for support. "You can't. This is gonna be dangerous."

"I'm sure it will be." Her gaze was level.

Angel squared his jaw. "You're not going." When she remained unswayed, Angel turned to the blond man. "Tell her, Spike."

"She'll be needed." There were decades of sadness in the look he gave Angel. He glanced at Sally. She was waiting to meet his gaze this time, her eyes warm.

Angel gave Spike a disgusted look. "Neither of you gets it. You're not going anywhere near this, Sally."

Sally looked past them both. "Buffy, you're the general, right?"

Buffy smoothed her still-damp hands down the sides of her jeans, nodding. She walked past Spike and Angel and started around the front of the truck. "And you're driving, right?"

Sally slid around Angel. "Spike, lock the door, would you? I'm going to go make sure all the goats are loose."

Angel made a furious sound in his throat. "Dammit!"

Spike put a hand on his forearm. "You can feel it, can't you?"

Angel jerked his arm away. "Yeah," he agreed reluctantly, "I can feel it." He sighed. "It's big."

"She can feel it, too, then. You're not responsible for her." Hearing this, Buffy glanced at Spike, then looked down.

Angel's voice dropped, and he said so quietly that Spike barely heard him, "I just want a home to come back to."

"There's no home for the likes…" Spike's voice trailed off. "No, you're right. This is home." He sounded surprised. Family bed or not, the old farmhouse did feel like home. He put his hand on Angel's forearm for just a second, so the other man would know how serious he was. They hardly ever touched. "It didn't work out too well for her the last time she stayed when people went off to fight." Spike met Angel's startled glance squarely. "She can take care of herself." He swung himself up and perched on the side of the truck bed. "I'll get the gate," he called to Sally in a normal voice as she came back.

"Thanks," she replied. Her gaze lingered on him for a moment, then shifted to the dark-haired man. "Ready?"

"Let's go," Angel snapped, and he held open the passenger door for Buffy.

⸹

They were rolling north on I-75 and halfway through Kentucky before midnight. Angel, still angry, would never admit it, but they had made much better time with Sally at the wheel than if he'd been the driver. She gave him a cool look when they made a pit stop in Berea, where she turned the driving over to Spike, warning him about speed traps ahead.

"I know I should sleep," Buffy said from where she sat behind Spike, "but I can't." She waved her diet cola in the air. "This caffeine isn't helping."

Sally looked over at her. "Someone should tell a story, then, since we can't agree on music." She glared a bit at the back of Angel's head. He'd threatened to put his fist through the radio if he had to listen to anything he didn't like.

"Something I've been wanting to know," Buffy mused. "How come you were at Wolfram and Hart last year, Angel?" She leaned forward and put an elbow on the console. "I mean, I saw decades of info on them that the Watchers' Council had gathered. Whyever would you want to work with the bad guys?"

"I had my reasons," Angel said shortly. There was an uncomfortable silence, and Buffy sat up, her narrowed eyes leaving Angel and focusing out the side window.

"You should tell," Sally said suddenly. She leaned forward and put her hand on his shoulder. "I wondered about that myself."

"Sally," Angel ground out, "shut up."

She sat back, too. "Fine. Be that way. Sull up like an old mule." Buffy kept looking out the window, suppressing a grin.

Spike raised an eyebrow and cast Angel a sidelong look. "Help pass the time, mate." He shifted his focus to the road ahead and got in a little dig. "Give him a few more of those sympathetic touches on the shoulder, Sally."

Angel growled.

They were twenty miles on the other side of Lexington before he broke the silence. "I should be telling this to you alone, Buffy." He sighed. "I don't know what we're going into, but it doesn't feel like it's gonna be easy. That's the only reason I'm doing it this way.

"Wolfram and Hart were after me as soon as Doyle looked me up. Another prophecy," he rolled his eyes, "says a vampire with a soul will play an important role in the apocalypse, but it doesn't say for which side. They wanted me on theirs." He paused. "You remember Darla?"

"Your sire. You staked her when I first learned you were…" Buffy's voice trailed off.

"Well, the firm brought her back. She came back human, and I… I thought I could save her. Saving her was… important to me. Wolfram and Hart brought Drusilla in to change her back into a vampire, to keep the bloodline pure, I suppose. And I couldn't save her.

"Remember that I told you how I just gave up?" He closed his eyes, suddenly glad that he could look out into the darkness instead of at Buffy. "I slept with Darla, thinking it would be easier if I could just lose my soul. It was selfish, and I didn't – lose my soul, I mean. Darla had never given me any happiness." He looked down to where his hands were clenched in his lap.

Buffy stared at the side of his face, then she jumped a little as Sally slid a cold hand over hers, giving the Slayer a sympathetic look. "Is Darla still out there?"

"No."

"Good. What happened to her?"

Angel's mouth tightened. "She died in childbirth." Spike turned his head, his eyebrows high, and met his eyes for a few seconds, until the thump of the warning ridges on the shoulder brought the road sharply to his attention.

"Child – " Buffy stopped. "Vampires can't have babies."

"No," Angel agreed. "They can't. She was a vampire, didn't have a soul, but the child she carried was human. She staked herself to save its life, because she couldn't give birth," he took a breath, "to our son."

Buffy's voice was very faint. "Your… son." She felt Sally squeeze her fingers.

"Our son, Connor. To this day, I don't know how, exactly, but I know why. I had won life for Darla, but she couldn't claim it, and Connor was that life that I had won, a prize. It wasn't… planned.

"There was another prophecy, concerning a demon named Sahjhan, that said he could only be killed by the child of vampires. Sahjhan brought Holz, an old enemy of mine, forward through time. Angelus had killed his family, so Holz took mine. He took Connor to a hell dimension and raised him to be a warrior, raised him to hate me. Then he brought him back, not a baby anymore. My son was born three years ago, but he's in college now, a grown man."

"Old enough to challenge you?" Spike guessed.

Angel nodded. "He was… I loved him so much, Buffy, when he was a baby. Darla had managed to give me happiness, in the end. And he was human, just with the strength and speed of our kind. I wanted to give him everything, be the kind of father I never… By the time Holz was through with him, growing up in that place… he hated me. He was so damaged."

Buffy looked over at Sally, whose fingers had tightened again. She was, oddly, looking at Spike. "So… Connor… doesn't like you? You don't see him anymore?"

"Connor was a pawn in a plot to bring an old god back into the world. So was Cordelia. That's what left her in a coma. Connor had so much anger… he was going to kill himself or a bunch of innocent people, or both. That's why I took the offer from Wolfram and Hart, Buffy. They couldn't change everything that had happened, but they could change memory. I… gave him up. They changed it for everyone except me. They put Connor in a real family and gave him a new set of memories, good ones, a happy childhood. Oh, Buffy," Angel said, shaking his head, "he's turning out to be such a good man. I mean, he's still my son – he defeated the demon Sahjhan, just like the prophecy said he would – but he's whole, now, safe. Knowing everything, knowing the cost, I'd take the same deal all over again." He glanced at Spike, then looked down again. "Even with Fred."

Buffy's hand was nearly as cold as Sally's as she stared at Angel's profile. He had left her because he couldn't give her a normal life, including children. But he'd won that, given that prize to another woman. To Darla. A child that might have been theirs. And he hadn't even told her about it.

Spike's voice cut into her bitter thoughts, deep and somehow reassuring. "Buffy, there's a story you might want to tell." She looked at where his reflection should be in the rearview mirror, knowing he could see her. "Not my place, but the time for that secret is past, too, I think."

"William." Buffy's whisper was fierce, warning. She pulled her hand free of Sally's and hugged herself. Sally looked at her, confused, then it fell into place. She'd never known Spike's given name, and she felt him slip a little farther away from her. She glanced at Angel, who had been Liam. Same name. No wonder they kept their post-human aliases.

"My opinion, Slayer," Spike was saying, his voice diffident.

Buffy sighed. "Angel, I wish you'd told me before." She glared at the back of the blond man's head. "What Spike means is that your memory was modified even before you gave up," her voice wavered, "your son."

Angel looked over his shoulder. "What?"

"Dawn's not much older than… Connor." She told them how Dawn had come to her, turning to Spike once in a while for help with the story. "So, you see, whatever potential she once had, it's dormant now. She's human. Please, Angel, Sally, don't treat her any differently than you did before. Dawn used to be so sensitive about that." She saw Spike nod and knew he was smiling at some memory. Buffy's heart gave a small twist, and she wished things could be right between Spike and his Little Bit once again.

"You gave your life for her," Angel said hoarsely. "So you know how I feel about Connor." He turned to look at her, finally.

She met his gaze and gave a small nod. "I know."

They were quiet as they passed into Ohio, rolling smoothly through the darkness. After a while, Angel leaned over and turned on the radio. He found a soft rock station, a peace offering. Sally let her forehead fall against the side window as she stared blindly outside, feeling very lonesome. How had these people lived through all that, made those sacrifices, all the while fighting evil day in and day out?

They're warriors, she told herself, champions. Angel was right; she should have stayed at home in North Carolina where she belonged. Her heart quailed at the thought of having to make the kinds of life-or-death decisions her traveling companions had made. Sally knew she wasn't a coward, knew she could fight and hold her own, but she also knew she wasn't in their league, didn't even play the same game. She glanced over at Buffy and they exchanged small, impersonal smiles. What have I gotten myself into? Sally wondered.

⸹

"I don't know that it really meant anything," Angel said without preamble. They were in the basement of Slayer Central, as Sally had once again gone to a hotel.

Spike didn't bother, either. "Hard to tell with her." He lowered himself onto the sleeping bag, then turned to look over at his grandsire. The darkness of the basement didn't keep him from seeing the apprehension on Angel's face. "'M not angry, Peaches." The blond man sighed and rolled over to face the ceiling. "It hurts, I won't lie. But… it could be worse."

"Riley, you mean?" They both smiled in the darkness. "Besides, something goes wrong, you get a crack at Angelus."

Spike's voice became something made of granite. "Nothing had better go wrong. Red will magick your soul back in, and it's you with the head panned in. So watch it with the happiness."

"Duly noted."

"'Duly'…Been around lawyers too long, you great poof."

"Begs the question of whom you've been around, with your command of the Queen's English."

"Wanker."

"Pest."

"'Night, then."

"Goodnight, my boy."

"Wanker." Spike lay looking up at the darkness and tried to work up a load of resentment against Angel – everything handed to him on a silver platter, always came out the winner, got the girl, played the hero. He couldn't, though, not now that he knew how much the older vampire had sacrificed. Things between them were easier than they had been since just after Angelus got his soul, before Darla threw him out of the family in China. The only thing he could manage was sadness, a certain acceptance.

He figured the hero thing just wasn't meant for him. Sure, he'd closed a Hellmouth, but he'd destroyed the whole town above it, and here they were on another Hellmouth. Nothing had changed. He had to scrap for everything, had to fight just to have his good intentions recognized by the white hats. His path was never going to be easy, and he would always choose the wrong route, get there late, and find that a real champion had already done it better, quicker. First.

The hell of it was, he had it in him to be the hero, Spike was sure of it. So many times he had gotten things almost right. He'd had Dawn's love, but had destroyed it without ever doing anything to the girl herself. He'd won his soul, not been cursed with it, but only after it was too late. He'd beaten Angel, but instead of taking control of the family and ordering his grandsire out of the evil abyss that was Wolfram and Hart, he'd stayed on the periphery until it was too late for Fred.

He'd almost had Buffy.

He had hurt Buffy.

Spike closed his eyes. What was the old saying? Close only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades. That was him, good for one thing, pull the pin and throw him against something that needed destroyed. At least he had that.

⸹

"Sally?" Buffy stepped up her pace for a few moments, catching up with the vampire.

"Hey, Buffy." Sally gave a wan smile in greeting. "Out for patrol?"

"Yeah. Might as well do something useful until we have our big meeting." Giles, still working on the translation, wanted to meet with everyone at daybreak. "Wanna come with?"

"Sure." Sally pulled a worn stake from the kangaroo pouch of the pullover she wore. "Never leave Mr. Giles' home without it."

"I meant to ask earlier, how long you've been using that stake?"

"From the beginning," Sally replied, her eyes distant with some memory.

"You must be fast, for it not to get dusted. Kendra, the first also-called Slayer, had a stake she always liked to use, too."

"Guess we'll need a lot of stakes for this twelve chances thing."

"Guess so. You headed in any particular direction?" Buffy asked.

Sally shook her head. "Just walking and thinking."

Buffy nodded. "Both good things to do." She gave the other woman a sidelong look. "Plus it gets you away from Slayer Central."

"Yep," Sally agreed, a grin tugging at one corner of her mouth. "I don't think I'll ever be comfortable in that house."

"Well," Buffy said, gesturing at her, "vampire."

"Yeah, there is that, but mostly it's because everyone there is so intense. I'm Southern; I don't do intense." She gave Buffy a sidelong look of her own. "Are you really going to call in the Initiative?"

"I'll call Riley, if I have to," Buffy said, choosing her words. "We may need a government presence to control the more public parts of the battle, keep the good people of Cleveland from panicking." The paused at a corner, then crossed, walking along the sidewalk that bordered a park. Part of Buffy's attention was focused on a picnic area, and she slowed. "Of course, I'm going to wait to see if Giles is right about the scope of this, if it's really going to be as big as he thinks." She shrugged and picked up the pace a bit. "I hope he's wrong."

"Is he ever?"

"Sometimes." They turned a corner, beginning a circle of the park, and she asked what was really on her mind. "So, how's it been, living with two broody vampires?"

Sally smiled, full and genuine this time. "It's been great, some of the best months of my life." She glanced at Buffy. "Having two friends, I mean, who know and understand. And they don't brood all the time."

Buffy gave her a dubious look. "Angel? Not broody?"

"Honey, he doesn't have a brood that can withstand a muscle car or the prospect of moonshine."

"Sounds like a story."

"Several. Make him tell you. It'll be good for you both."

"You're fond of him." Buffy stared straight ahead as she said this.

"I am. It took a while, not like with Spike, who's so easy to get along with." She missed Buffy's raised eyebrows. They turned another corner. "Being around Spike has helped, too, I think. Angel gets to see that being ensouled doesn't automatically mean tortured."

Buffy smiled, too, but it faded rather quickly. "What about you and Spike?"

Sally looked over and met the blond woman's eyes. "Did you and Spike have what you would call a healthy relationship?" she asked in turn.

Buffy's mouth was caught between a grin and a grimace. "Healthy? Not the word for it."

"If there's just two people, can you call it a club? Honey, I'd join," Sally said, raising her hand in the air. She sighed. "Remember when we went walking the last time, and I said that I was a bad proposition and he was worse? Doesn't keep me from wanting him."

"I'm sorry," Buffy offered, but she wasn't. It didn't sound like Sally and Spike were lovers, and she was relieved, then guilty for having wrong, possessive feelings, then just sad. Spike and sex was like people and breathing; he should be having sex. Until the soul, it had been such a large part of who he was.

Sally shrugged. "It's my problem." She took a breath. "I understand things better than I did then, Buffy, about what it's like for you guys. I'm glad you and Angel are trying. Spike still makes my heart hurt, though."

"What do you mean?" Their eyes met for a moment, and they stopped walking.

"You're probably too young to remember 'percussive maintenance,'" Sally began, "you know, where you thump something that's not working right?" She demonstrated, smacking the heel of her hand against an imaginary piece of equipment. "Back when things had moveable parts, sometimes that would knock the part that was just a little off kilter back into place. Well, part of me thinks I could do that with Spike. Just a little nudge….

"Only, complex and delicate though he is, Spike is a person, not a VCR. Not malfunctioning. Not damaged." Sally sighed, and let her eyes drop from Buffy's face. "I want him to be someone he isn't, and that's my problem. It's close; he's almost that person, but he's really someone better."

Buffy couldn't leave the question unasked. "Who do you want him to be?"

Sally looked into the darkness of the park. "Someone who can be happy in everyday life. Someone who can love and be loved." She turned abruptly and started walking. "But he is exactly who he's supposed to be, tough the way he has to be. He's a champion." Sally shot Buffy a sidelong glance. "Like you. Like Angel. He's happiest during a fight, I think, when he's doing just what he's been made to do."

Buffy, however, was thinking of the other part of what Sally had said, remembering the times Spike had said just the wrong thing to sabotage her feelings for him. They walked in silence for a while, finishing the lap around the park.

"Thanks for listening. And thanks for walking with me."

"No problem." Buffy stuffed her cold hands into her coat pockets. It was September and starting to be cool. "So, what do you do now?"

Sally didn't pretend to misunderstand. "Be there when he needs a friend. Accept him for who he is, all of him, stop trying to make him be just those parts that suit me. I'm old enough to know better."

"Just friends?" Buffy's voice was cynical.

Sally raised her eyebrows. "That's enough, at least for me. I don't have a whole lot of friends."

⸹

"So, it seems that tomorrow night," Giles said, folding the pages of the flip chart back and smoothing them absently with his hand, "we will have the first of twelve opportunities."

After an uneasy silence in the crowded room, Buffy looked around. Willow and Oz were sitting on the couch holding hands. She wondered about that, although both of them insisted there was nothing going on. She knew most of the Cleveland slayers by name, having made a point of it after those last, frantic months in Sunnydale. Rona and Vi, of course, Bethany next to a jet-lagged Dawn, Tamika, Kayla, Tiffani and Tiffany, Vashti, Belinda, Crystal, Geneva and three more that she didn't know yet. Sally was sitting on the windowsill, looking far more scared than the untested slayers. Faith and Robin would be in tomorrow morning, Kennedy and Ute were expected in the afternoon, and Xander was coming all the way from Africa. She could feel Angel behind her, and Spike was leaning against the doorframe. It should be enough.

"So, all we have to do is win twelve battles?" Buffy asked.

"There is that, but I don't doubt that there is something else as well," Giles replied, frowning. "The volume I obtained is very sketchy, but after the first battle, we'll have a clearer idea. Where the battle is at will give us some clue, if it isn't on the Hellmouth. Perhaps an ancient warrior can arise during the battles. Maybe it's a curse or a spell on a mystical weapon that can be broken. Perhaps… well, a lot of things. All I know for sure is that we must win." He looked around at the young faces, some new to him, some familiar and loved, and he smiled. "But, then, we always do."

⸹

"Ready to go?"

Sally looked up at Spike, turning the plate in her hand to dry the other side. "Yeah, just a couple more to put away, and I'll be ready."

He nodded, but didn't offer to help, just watched her finish up. She never seemed to resent cooking breakfast for the large number of people living at Giles', but she flatly refused to live there. Just as she had picked up the duty, unremarked upon, of cooking, he had assumed the task of driving her to her very nice hotel room each morning and going to unlock her each evening.

"All right, honey. I'm ready." Sally dried her hands on the towel, and they went through the door that led from the kitchen to the garage. The trip was mostly silent. Spike found it hard to believe that the quiet woman in the passenger seat was the same Sally who had politely but firmly rescued the remnants of Angel Investigations late one night in Los Angeles. That woman had disappeared somewhere between North Carolina and Cleveland. He parked in the underground garage and walked up the stairs with her. Her room was on the fifth floor, but they never took the mirrored elevators. After a short walk down the hallway, she unlocked her door and turned to him, not meeting his eyes. "I'll see you around seven?"

He nodded, and she gave him a perfunctory smile as she went into the room. "Wait," he said suddenly, putting his hand out to stop the door from closing. "Sally, are you all right?"

"I'm fine."

"We need to talk."

"No."

He blinked. The Southern manners were also gone. "Too bad, because we're going to. It's my right as your friend, and I'm not giving it up." Something flickered in her eyes, but she kept holding the door against him. He managed to meet her gaze and did not blink.

She took a breath and let most of it out in a sigh. "Come in, then." She moved across the living room, toward the little kitchenette. "Can I get you something to drink?"

"I'll have what you're having, s'long as it's not tequila." No answering smile. He watched her get blood from the mini-fridge, pour them each a cup, and set the microwave. She didn't turn back to him, just stared at the oven as she waited for it to beep.

"Here you go," she said, placing the mug on the coffee table instead of in his hand. She sat on the opposite end of the couch from him.

Spike took a sip and studied her as she stared at the cup in her hands, not drinking. "I get the sense you've been avoiding me, Tolliver."

"I have been."

He felt his worry lift a bit. She was still honest with him. He took a larger drink; her deliveries of blood were much fresher than what Giles supplied. "Bloke gets a bit curious as to why."

She looked up and met his gaze then, her expression bleak. "Because I am so afraid I'm going to lose you or Angel." She shrugged. "Or Buffy, or Oz, or Gunn, when he gets here… " Sally set the cup on the table and folded herself onto the couch, hugging her knees. "I can't keep up a happy, carefree front. So, if I'm really quiet and still, then I can hold in the fear until I get back here." She looked away and pressed her lips together. "Not a one of you should die. You're all working so hard for what's good, and…."

"So that's it." He considered for a moment, then moved to the couch cushion next to her. The uncertainty had been hard on all of them, no one as much as Giles, who felt his books were letting them all down. The first two battles had taken place in office buildings, of all places, and nothing had manifested or been revealed. There were no clues to glean, and five slayers had died. He hadn't known them, but their faces had been familiar. No time to dwell, though, so he tried a bit of humor. "Your first apocalypse always feels like the end of the world." He waited for it.

She snorted, a reluctant grin curving her mouth. "I think the waiting is the worst, then I think the actual fighting is the worst." Sally shook her head. "I don't know how you guys do it, knowing that there's always another battle coming."

"Well, for one, we don't bottle it up," he admonished. She raised an eyebrow. "Okay, right. How's this: you shouldn't bottle it up."

"I'm homesick."

He looked down at her, surprised by the simple sentiment. The peaceful farmstead seemed like a half-remembered dream now, much like his human home in London, just another place he would never return to. Again unsure of what he was allowed, he lifted her hands from her knees and pulled her toward him. At the same time, he scooted back, hoping that she would rest her head in his lap, wanting to soothe her the same way she had once comforted him. "You've got me and Angel here."

Sally came closer to him, hiding her face against his chest, her arms wrapping around his torso, but she didn't move onto his lap. He carefully enfolded her in his arms, one of his hands cupping her head, holding her against his still heart. After several minutes, she found the words that would do. "You and Angel have been so busy, and, anyway, Angel is as happy as a pig in slop. I didn't want to bother him."

A delighted grin settled on Spike's face, despite what was making Angel happy. "That is an absolutely wonderful image."

"What is?"

"Angel the pig."

"It's just a Southern saying."

"Can't be. No butts in it." He felt the muscles in her abdomen jerk as she laughed without breathing. "So, now I finally get to say it: be nice, 'cause he isn't here to defend himself."

She looked up at him, the tears he'd known were falling now mostly dry. Her face was as serious as he had ever seen it. "I'm so sorry I hurt you. I promised I wouldn't, and I did anyway."

He shrugged. "Price of living." Spike touched her cheek, his mouth tightening. "And you didn't do anything to me. I did it to myself."

"No," she said, suddenly fierce. He was happy to see it. "It was done to you. You've been through so much." He felt her body tense, and she pushed away from him, brushing at her face angrily. She took up her cup and stood, walking away a few steps. "I don't like them, sometimes."

"Who?" he asked, confused.

"The people at Mr. Giles' house." She walked back and sat next to him. "Spike, the things you've been through, sacrificed…" He heard a small snap as she abruptly closed her mouth.

"No," he said slowly. "Go on. If you can't say anything nice, I can't wait to hear."

"The slayers treat you like a sex object," she said. She sat her untouched cup down with a clink.

"And that's bad for a fellow how, exactly?" he asked, giving her a seductive smile.

Her eyes flashed, but she didn't bother. Something larger weighed on her mind. "I don't mean Buffy, Spike. I like her very much. But her friends, her sister… the way they talk to you… it's almost like contempt."

"Familiarity breeds." He shrugged. "It's mutual. Mostly."

"How could they? After what you did for them?"

"After what I did to them?" he corrected. Spike looked at her unhappy face and took her hands again. "They knew me before I had my soul, pet. I was their Big Bad for a long time. I nearly cracked Harris' thick skull open, had a go with his girl. I've shoved broken bottles at Red's face, gone for her neck." He shrugged. "They've got their reasons, and I honestly don't care."

"I don't want to dislike her, but Dawn is the worst. You love her, I know you do. But she looks at you like… I mean, what did you ever do to her?"

His words were stark. "I tried to rape her sister."

She looked down. After a moment, she asked, "What more could you ever do to make amends, that you haven't already done?"

"Bit's young, Sally. They all are." He lifted her knuckles to his lips for a moment. "But it's nice that you get mad over it. Thanks." He looked up, and what he saw in her eyes didn't frighten him as much.

She pulled her hands from his, looking at her feet, the opposite wall, anything except him. She pushed the cup toward him. "I can't drink this," she said, her voice small. "You want it?"

"I'll not turn it down." Spike slid the mug so that it was in front of him, but he didn't pick it up. He stared at it and took a breath. "Do you want me to stay, Sally? I think I can, now." He kept himself from saying that it had nothing to do with Buffy and Angel, because it did.

She stared at the cup, too. "I do want you to stay." The words were low, honest.

Less than a month since their blood had mingled, and the link between them was suddenly wide open. She knew that he wanted her sweetness, even if he couldn't find oblivion in her arms, even if she wasn't something he was stealing from Angel. He knew she craved closeness, that she would accept his body if that was all he could give. They shared the same picture in their minds, knowing instinctually who would tear away which piece of clothing, knowing that by the time their bodies were free, he would be hard, she would be ready. He felt the discomfort of the arm of the couch digging into her back; she felt the way his knee kept slipping into the valley between the cushions. They knew what each climax felt like for the other, and that after long hours of intimacy they would not be able meet each other's gaze. Then, as clearly as if she had spoken the words again, "We deserve better."

With an indrawn breath, Spike closed the link, as if slamming a door. They didn't move, but it was as if they had suddenly pulled apart and fled to opposite sides of the room. "So," she said, making her voice even, "that means you should probably go."

"Obviously," he agreed. Spike lifted the cup and drained the blood from it. He placed it back on the table and stood, not sure what to do with his hands. "I'll, uh, see you tonight." He saw her nod with his peripheral vision, and he left.

Spike sat in the truck in the dim light of the parking garage, his hands clenched on the wheel, too shaken to drive. He quickly calculated how long they had been in Cleveland, then closed his eyes, letting his head fall forward onto the steering wheel. It meant that for almost two weeks he had overlooked how much she was hurting, how badly he had hurt her.

The bloodlink between them had been sudden and almost total. He'd never wanted let Dru that deeply into his mind nor wanted to know very much of her mad inner life, and he'd strenuously kept up the splintered barriers against Angelus. The last time Sally had been open to him, he had found nothing but desire and joy and anticipation and love – let's not forget love. It was a wonderful place to be.

This time all that was left of that landscape was love, a small, cowering thing, choked by desperation and pain, a new bleakness that overshadowed everything. He knew his own heart, knew that he wasn't capable of being in love again. His love for Buffy had been total, had taken everything inside him. But the bloodlink went both ways, and now Sally no longer believed him capable, either, not just of loving her, but of ever loving again. She had given up on him, and he'd felt her sorrow, not for herself, but for him.

His tears, though, were for her, for her broken world. Sally had believed that love could conquer anything. Spike sat up straight and wiped his eyes, a terrifying and mercifully short laugh escaping him. He'd taught her better.

Clenching his teeth, he started the truck. What had he told Angel? What was left of his life, that was it. He backed the truck out of the small space, and drove back to where he could give what was left of his life to the good fight.

⸹

Two days later, Spike saw Sally close the kitchen door behind her and look around at the people crowding the living room, uncertain. He went to her, pulling someone along in his wake. "Here we are, then, someone you need to see," he said, enormous satisfaction in his voice. He watched the polite expression on her face transform into genuine joy.

"Gunn!"

They hugged each other, not caring how out-of-place their laughter seemed in the solemn house. "How've you been?"

"Fine," she said automatically. "It's so good to see you. You look great! When did you get in?"

Spike tried without success to keep a grin off his face as he listened. He'd just made two people he cared about very happy. Someone slipped a warm hand into his, and he jerked a little. "Buffy," he breathed. "Have you met Charlie?"

An arm still around Sally, Gunn put out a hand. "The Buffy? I missed you in Los Angeles last year. Man, I know I'm gonna be disappointed," he said, grinning. "There's no way you can live up to the legend. And it's Gunn, not Charlie."

"I see my stories precede me," she said dryly, shaking his hand.

"Oh, man, Angel? Brood, brood, brood. And Spike: too shy to get in touch with you? Harmony was still spazzed about you. And when your name came up, Cordelia was always with the catty remark." His grin faded at that.

"I'm sorry. I heard that Angel Investigations had a rough time of it this spring."

"Yeah." He sighed. "Thanks."

"So, how are you doing? Recuperated?" Sally asked. A sad smile flickered over Spike's face as he thought of that last day. Buffy squeezed his fingers, didn't let go.

"A hundred percent," Gunn affirmed, a little too heartily. "Oh, last time I saw Dr. Jim, he said to tell you he was going into hibernation."

She nodded. "It'd been coming for a while. Thanks. He still planning on being a woman when he wakes up?"

Gunn opened his mouth, but even after years of working with demons, this left him at a loss. "Er, he didn't say."

"I sort of hope he does, so I'll have a woman friend again. We can do girl stuff together, watch chick flicks, go shopping."

Gunn ran with it. "Sounds like a plan. You need a makeover. Even I've given up the flannel."

Sally looked down at her jeans, flannel shirt, and tank top. "There's nothing wrong with what I'm wearing," she protested.

"It's the same damn thing you always wear," Gunn drawled. "I've never seen you wear anything different."

"You know, you're right," Buffy piped up, looking thoughtfully at Spike. "What is it with vampires, always wearing the same thing?" She eyed his black jeans and t-shirt up and down, the expression on her face wry.

Spike and Sally exchanged a glance. "No reflection," she said.

"Yeah," Spike agreed. "This way, no big fashion mistakes."

"You find something that works –"

"A look that suits you –"

"And you never have to worry."

"Doesn't show blood. Very practical."

"And comfortable."

"Do you know what I had to wear when I was human? Wool."

"A girdle."

"'Sides, goes real well with my boots."

"I hate to have anything tight around my neck."

"The right number of pockets," Spike added, lifting a finger.

"It's not as though it's the exact same clothes everyday."

"Yeah, they're always clean."

"Honey, you get tired of choosing clothes every morning when you live forever. This is automatic."

"Anyway, I look good in this color. Black suits us blonds."

"You do look good in black," Sally agreed.

"What," Gunn broke in, "so you think you look good in flannel? Might as well wear a Duke shirt. No one looks good in flannel." He grinned down at Sally. "Well, I did."

"Gee, thanks," Sally said sardonically. "I'm not trying to look good," she went on, "so much as I'm trying to blend into the background."

"Why do you want to do that?" Buffy asked, curiosity overriding good manners. The other woman opened her mouth to answer, but a piercing whistle came from the next room. "That's our call to order," Buffy explained. "Let's go try to find somewhere to sit in the living room."

She let go of Spike's hand as unobtrusively as possible. As they moved further into the house, she looked over her shoulder at Spike. "You know, Angel doesn't always wear the same thing."

"Bloody Angel," Spike muttered.

"Wow," Buffy breathed. She rolled away from Angel, letting the air of the room cool her sweat-soaked body.

"Wow," he agreed. "I can never really enjoy this," he added, going over the reasons in his head.

She was used to this; he had to bring Angelus to mind. No post-coital glow for him. It didn't bother her; she wasn't as interested in romance now that she'd found he had almost as much stamina as Spike.

"Giles hasn't found anything else," she mused. That was something else for him to brood about.

Angel wasn't thinking about the battles. He had seen her holding Spike's hand a few times over the last week. The thought of her being unfaithful was certainly a curb for happiness. "We'll, uh, figure it out," he said mechanically. "We always do."

"Angelus stuffed back down?"

"Pretty much."

Buffy rolled to her side to look at him, grinning impishly. "We'll bring Spike for a threesome next time." She stiffened as his eyes flashed yellow, and she raised an arm in capitulation. "Hey, just trying to help you tamp down Angelus."

"Think you having my boy here wouldn't make him happy?" Angel made his demon submerge beneath his own features.

"Who cares? I was trying to make _you_ unhappy." She frowned. "Helpful girl, here. All with the lesser happies."

Angel had heard her heartrate increase, though. Maybe she was trying to make him jealous, trying to keep him from being happy, but ever since the first of the battles, he had to wonder.

He'd never seen Buffy and Spike fight together. The examples to describe it were all things of beauty and grace: synchronized swimming, pairs skating, ballet. The two warriors made a deadly wall no enemy could pass, all their motions complementary. Angel had seen them set up a complicated defense involving moving behind three bulky, fanged demons with nothing more than a jerk of Buffy's head and a tightening of Spike's mouth.

Angel had never really been jealous of the boy, but he knew he could not fight beside Buffy or anyone like that. His jaw flexed. He didn't have to be jealous; she was in his bed, wasn't she? He'd won, again.

⸹

[Author's Note: The song lyric is from J.R.R. Tolkien's _The Hobbit_.]

⸹

What on earth have I gotten myself into? Sally wondered yet again, parrying a vicious axe-swing with the Louisville Slugger she'd taken from another, now dead Thula demon. At the same time, she launched a back kick at the vampire who was coming at her from behind. The blow from the Thula demon's axe splintered the wooden baseball bat, so she used it to stake the vampire.

Another axe swung through the air, and Sally ducked, but this one was wielded by Charles Gunn. She gave him a quick smile of thanks as the second Thula demon's head rolled away. Charles had been in Cleveland three weeks now, invaluable in last week's fight, and she was sure she wasn't the only person he'd helped tonight, their fourth chance.

Sally fell into step with him as they retraced their steps. She got a can of paint from the jacket she wore and sprayed an X on the door to show the area was clear. It had been Willow's idea after the first night of intra-building combat, and she had magicked the paint so that it acted as a barrier that demons couldn't pass. While Mr. Giles still hadn't figured out the schedule of the twelve opportunities, for all practical purposes, it didn't matter. Before each attack, there was an impossible-to-hide influx of demons into Cleveland.

"Didn't know you were down this way," Gunn said.

"You came down here alone," Sally scolded.

"You did, too," he shot back, holding the door to the stairwell for her.

"Honey, I'm already dead. You're not." She sighed and tightened her ponytail. "Where're we headed?"

"Down to the second floor, last I heard. Heavy on the vampires." The slayers fought from the top down, clearing each floor, working their way to the subbasements where the sewer access let demons into the buildings. Outside, Riley Finn's paramilitary units created a buffer between their work and innocent civilians.

"I'll head down to one, then."

"Then I'll go, too."

"Go be the cavalry for someone else, Charles."

"Not a chance."

"I'll make you a batch of scratch biscuits." She looked up at him. "You can have the funny biscuit."

He made an impatient noise. "Your biscuits aren't that good. Well, okay, they are, but that's not the point. Sally, are you trying to get yourself killed? You can't keep going off by yourself."

"It's easier alone. I don't know how to fight with people, Charles."

"And you're never gonna learn, are you, you keep fighting alone."

"All right," she said irritably. "Here, we're at the second floor. See, I'm going."

"Good, then."

"Fine." She gave him a half-exasperated, half-affectionate look. "I'll make biscuits, anyway, but you're not getting the funny one."

"I'll charm it out of you," he said, grinning.

"We'll see." She looked around at the 'x's spray-painted on the doors. Gunn went out slightly ahead of her, his axe raised. The hallway was quiet, but they could hear sounds of battle ahead.

The first floor had a double staircase that curved up to the second floor, and the steps and the open space between the stairs were dotted with combatants. Sally scanned the fray for Spike's distinctive blond head and found him fighting near Buffy and Giles. She searched with increasing concern for Angel's dark head and broad shoulders and found him fighting in the thick of it on the nearest staircase.

"Cavalry's here," Gunn said, and she followed him, vaulting over the railing. She took her trusty stake from her back pocket, holding it in her right hand, and using the ruined baseball bat as a nightstick. She outpaced Gunn, feeling her demon leaping within her, wanting out in a way she'd felt only in the previous battles.

Sally watched Angel as she moved toward him, dispatching two vampires along the way, anticipating his side kick and making sure she was there with an upraised stake when his hapless opponent fell toward her. She saw his dark eyes widen, looking past her. Sally ducked, felt the air from his kick pass over her head, then swept out with her own leg to put the assailant on the ground. She staked it, then tossed the wooden weapon up to Angel. Scuttling out of his way, she dropped down a couple of steps, then stood, the stump of the baseball bat in her hand.

No enemy was charging up the stairs toward her, so she took a quick moment to look around. Giles was fighting with a sword, moving with a lethal elegance. Xander was working from a corner where his lack of vision in his left eye wouldn't be a liability, flanking two slayers she didn't know. The two blond heads that marked Buffy and Spike were moving in an erratic, lethal dance, darting to and fro, leaving a thinner line of opponents in their wake. Their pairing during battles had gone unremarked; while Buffy might share Angel's bed, it was Spike who belonged at her side during a fight. They moved together as gracefully and effortlessly as flying birds.

Above Sally, Gunn had joined Angel, and they were fighting back-to-back, only four – no, three – enemies surviving near them. She couldn't find Oz, or Willow, or Rona. Then she spotted the place she'd been searching for. A few feet down from the elevators was a door that had swung open twice since she'd been watching. Both times a small knot of vampires came out. Sally vaulted over the railing a second time, landing on the marble of the atrium. She grabbed two smallish demons and smacked their heads together, spinning behind them as they fell, then sprinted toward the door, which was marked "Employees Only." She positioned herself next to it and waited until it opened, staking the vampire who emerged. She snatched at a hand just inside the door and pulled out a second vampire. Sally grappled with it for a moment, then slammed it back through the doorframe into the next combatant trying to join the fight. She followed on its heels, the jagged stump of the baseball bat held aloft.

The air cleared in the narrow corridor, and Sally turned away from the two scatterings of dust on the floor. She felt in her jacket pocket and pulled out the spray can. With a quick glance over her shoulder, she pushed the door open and stepped back into the atrium. Holding the knob, she sprayed a hasty 'x' on the metal door, smiling with some satisfaction at the thought of the logjam of demons that would soon be piled up behind it. With a last look down the hallway, Sally let go of the knob, and began tucking the spray can back into her jacket. She never saw the tentacle that snaked along the floor and eased around her ankle.

The spray paint slipped from her fingers as she was yanked off her feet. Sally let out a yelp of surprise that was lost in the din of battle. She felt herself slide along the slick marble back through the "Employees Only" door, started to grab the frame, then decided she would rather meet face first whatever it was that had her.

She never did find out exactly what it was, only knew that it had tentacles rather than limbs and that the stump of a baseball bat into its single eye would kill it. Sally looked back at the closed door, the 'x' on the outside now barring her way just as it did any other demon. She swallowed, then made herself take the baseball bat from where it stuck out of the corpse. It was her only weapon, and she doffed her jacket, using it to clean the slime from the wood. Holding the bat at the ready, she waited by the door.

Over the next few minutes, two more groups of four vampires came down the corridor, and she managed to stake all eight at only the cost of a few bruised ribs. The sounds of battle in the atrium had faded, moved farther away, and Sally gave up any hope that someone had seen and was going to open the door. Sighing, she began walking down the corridor, the broken bat held high, and began to look for another way out.

The hallway crooked several times, but there were no doors along the walls. Her brows first drew together at this oddity, then her face went perfectly blank, too unnerved to display emotion at what came next. The floor changed from tile to wooden planking and began to slope downward, and the overhead fluorescents gave way to single, stark bulbs. The hallway continued on, the silence now unsettling her more than the lack of right angles. She didn't remember this place, wherever it was, on the architect's blueprints that someone had found for the slayers to study.

She met no one else as she walked. The hallway zigged once more and around this corner it ended, opening up onto a catwalk that spanned a huge cavern. Sally peered over the wooden walkway, seeing switchbacks curve down into the depths as far as she could see, looking like the world's shoddiest scaffolding. The area closest to her was lit with pitch torches, and there was no movement or scent of any living thing. She looked up. The torchlight did not go up far enough to show the ceiling of the cave.

Sally was certain that she would not be allowed to go back, that the hallway where she had started was no longer there. Squaring her shoulders, she took a torch from the wall and began walking down the catwalk. After long minutes of trudging downward, she found that she was naming off her goats, and a faint smile touched her face. No wonder, in this Tolkienesque place. 'Down, down to goblin town,' she thought, then stopped herself. Not funny, after all.

After she had walked for what she judged to be half an hour, Sally paused and craned her neck to look above her. Either the torches at the top had burned out, or she was in a stranger place than she realized, because it didn't look as if she had made much progress, maybe descended twelve or so winding levels. She was sure that she had covered more than five times that distance. With that in mind, she took a new pitch torch from its brace on the wall and left the original one in its place. She put the stump of the baseball bat in her back pocket and, the torch held aloft, continued along the walkway.

She had switched torches twice more when it happened. One of the planks splintered, and her foot went through it. The torch flew out of her hand and into the emptiness of the cavern as she pitched forward, falling onto the catwalk. The force of her landing snapped more planks, and she fell onto the next level, which also gave way. 'Oh, crud,' Sally had time to think, as she careened over the edge, 'wood.'

Her back hit the walkway below, and she snatched out with unnatural reflexes to grab it, coming away with nothing but splinters in her fingertips. The freefall lasted a shorter time than she expected, and she crashed through something more solid than wood with an involuntary "Ooof!" Then she smacked for a final time onto her hip, felt several things pierce her skin, and she squeezed her eyes shut, expecting to fly into billions of particles of dust at any second. When she didn't, she opened her eyes.

The first thing she saw was the hole she'd created in the ceiling high above her, a jagged black opening in the dark roof of wherever she was. Sally looked side to side, seeing curving wooden walls, like those of a ship. Flexing her muscles, she checked for broken bones. She tried to sit up, then winced, noticing a long splinter of walkway embedded in her forearm. Grimacing, she pulled it free, then checked herself for other injuries. For a few minutes, she plucked pieces of wood from her limbs and torso, frankly amazed that none had pierced her heart. She eased the last jagged splinter from the back of her neck, then sat quietly, waiting for the oozing wounds to heal. With a slight wince, she rolled onto one hip, pulling the baseball bat from her back pocket, glad that she couldn't see the bruise on her buttock.

There wasn't much light in the odd, curving room, but what little there was gleamed softly from somewhere behind her. When she felt a little less ventilated, Sally got to her feet with a groan, thinking that she sure sounded like an eighty-year-old woman. The stump of the bat clutched in her right hand once more, she started moving cautiously toward the source of the light.

The wooden walls opened onto an enormous room, the vastness of it broken up by large, white sheets of fabric that billowed slightly with currents in the air. They served as walls of sorts, though she couldn't tell from where they were suspended or what held them aloft. The impression of being on an old sailing ship came to her again, though she couldn't feel any movement beneath her feet or smell the ocean. The floor was also white, made of a dull stone. She glanced around, trying to find something to orient herself, wasn't surprised when she couldn't sense east. She couldn't even discern how close it was to sunrise, her most basic vampire sense. The only thing that served as a focal point was the brightness of the soft light, so she began walking towards it. Absently, Sally again tucked the bat into the back pocket of her jeans, holding both hands in front of her to ward of the edges of the rippling sheets. The enormous room was quiet except for her footfalls and the occasional snap of cloth.

The atmosphere, calm though it was, became suddenly quieter, and Sally paused before stepping around the next sheet. The light, which had grown steadily brighter as she neared it, suddenly moderated. The first thing she noticed when she stepped into the central space was a human face.

He was a mature man of indeterminate age, a permanent frown on his face. His features were Middle Eastern, and he wore a white tunic, a small, round, white cap on his head, and brown leather sandals. The man was sitting on a white chair before a white table, on which lay a single old issue of _Look_ magazine. Sally could see Shirley Temple on the cover.

The only other thing in the room was an intricate pedestal made of wrought iron or some other metal that could be worked by an artist's hand, painted white. Set on the pedestal was a translucent lamp or pot, with a handle on either side. This was the source of the opalescent light. Sally looked at it for a long while, longer, she suspected, than she realized. It was lovely.

Shaking her head, Sally took a breath and focused on the man at the white table. He was perusing a yellowed scroll now, and she thought he looked like nothing so much as a scholar at the library in Alexandria. She took a couple of uncertain steps toward him.

"You are not expected," he said. He rolled the scroll toward the bottom dowel, the two sticks of wood clicking as they touched. As he lay it back on the surface of the table and removed his hands, it changed into an anime comic book. His hands moved toward it, then they stilled, and he looked up at her.

"I have to agree, sir," she said, innate Southern politeness coming to the fore. "Good…evening." He nodded gravely. After waiting a couple of beats for him to speak again, Sally went on. "Where exactly are we?"

"We are here," he replied, "where the lamp is." He nodded toward the pedestal.

"You are a djinn?" Sally asked, wondering if she was speaking English.

He looked at her with sharpened interest. "I am Sayeed," he replied, not answering, inclining his head once.

"Pleased to meet you, Sayeed," she said. "I am–"

"I know who you are," he interrupted. "That you are here is immaterial."

Sally raised her eyebrows, pondering this. "What am I to do here?"

"Those who come here do one of two things: they touch the lamp or they pass by without touching the lamp."

"Which would you recommend, al-Sayeed?"

He raised his heavy brows. "I do not recommend either."

She tried another tack. "How can I leave this place?"

"You do not. If you take up the lamp, you will die. If you pass by the lamp, you will soon find death."

"I'm already dead, al-Sayeed."

He regarded her gravely. "If you take up the lamp to illuminate the wish of your heart, your body will disintegrate, and the demon housed inside will be destroyed. Your soul will journey to wherever it goes next. If you pass by the lamp, the same things will soon happen by different means."

'Lovely,' Sally thought, but she was unsurprised by the news. She had suspected for some time that she wouldn't find her way back. At least she might get a few answers; this being could just look at her and see the soul and demon inside. "Where does my soul go next?" Sayeed looked at her but said nothing. "Let me guess," Sally tried, "you must speak the truth, but there are some things–"

"I choose to speak the truth," Sayeed said, interrupting again, "I am not bound to do so. You have a human soul, and there are some things you may not know and I cannot see."

If politeness was important to Southerners, Sally knew it was doubly important in the East, so she swallowed her irritation. "Thank you for speaking the truth, al-Sayeed. I appreciate that. Please tell me, will my death accomplish anything if I do not choose the lamp?"

"No."

"Will it accomplish anything if I do?"

"I cannot say. It depends on your wish."

'My wish,' Sally thought. "Thank you." She turned from Sayeed and looked at the light once more. A genie and a lamp and a wish. She had some thinking to do.

⸹

"Drusilla."

Angel breathed in the scent, then turned to nod in agreement at Spike. They had fought their way down to the subbasements, and this time casualties were light, with two Watchers and one slayer injured. The two Aurelians were in the security room, checking the monitors to see if anything was still lurking.

"Did you see her?"

Spike shook his head. "I suspect she saw us, though," he said, gesturing at the bank of monitors.

"Do you think she was using the security system to direct the troops?"

"More likely that she was just watching the fight like it was something good playing on the West End."

"Maybe." Angel studied the screens methodically, barely noticing Spike move around behind him.

"Here," he said, dropping a walkie-talkie on the counter in front of the dark-haired man. "I'll follow her scent, keep in touch with you."

"Let's see if we can spot her from here."

"All right." He followed Angel's gaze to one monitor, which showed Buffy and Xander standing in the lobby, talking to a tall man in military gear. "Wanker."

"That Riley?" The camera angle only showed his back.

"Who else would it be? Buffy wouldn't stop to talk to a random soldier."

Angel's eyes darkened as he stared at the screen. He'd had a fight with Buffy, and they hadn't shared a bed for over a week. She'd pointed out that, while he had memories of Dawn implanted, she had no memories of Connor to remove. Angel agreed, telling her that even if she wasn't in his life, she was in his heart. His reasoning didn't seem to satisfy her. She'd come around, though she'd probably come around faster without Riley Finn in the picture.

Spike turned to a nearby computer and studied it for a few moments. "Try this," he suggested, moving the mouse and clicking it a couple of times. One of the monitors began showing the feed from every security camera in succession, and they watched as each flickered past. Most views were of empty rooms and corridors, but it was heartening to see the faces of the people they knew flash by.

When the last camera on the roof failed to show Drusilla, Angel took up the radio set and nodded to the blond man. "We'll go together."

"Angel…" Spike said, holding the door. He looked into the hall for a moment, testing the air, then gestured to their right. He pulled a stake from his coat pocket. "I think I can. But if I can't…."

Angel met his gaze. "I can. It would be better if I did. Fitting, somehow."

Spike nodded once, and they began walking down the hallway. "It's just… I've saved her so many times. I really have to work to get into the right frame of mind to kill her."

"She'll probably be doing something that'll make you want to kill her," Angel reassured him.

"I can't believe I didn't feel her," Spike mused. "I always know when Dru's nearby. Haven't seen her since I got my soul, though."

"Might have something to do with it," Angel agreed absently.

Spike stopped suddenly, his gaze unfocused. "I can feel Buffy and Dawn," he said slowly, "but I can't find Sally."

Angel had moved a few feet ahead. He stopped and turned back to Spike, tilting his head slightly. "I can't, either." He fumbled in the pocket of his jacket and pulled out an old, gray stake. "Sally gave this to me on the lobby stairs. I didn't see her after that." They stared at each other for a moment. "Did you see her on the monitors?" When the other man shook his head, his shoulders tensed. "I'm sure she's fine. I don't sense Gunn, either, and I saw him after the worst of it. Maybe they're outside."

Spike nodded slowly. "Yeah. 'Course they are." After a few more seconds, he started forward.

Angel fell into step beside him. "Right now, we need to find Dru." Both men lifted their heads to inhale, and they started upstairs in silence.

⸹

A single wish. I wish I may, I wish I might. Her eyes felt dry, and Sally blinked. After a long time spent gazing at the clear, soft light, she made herself look away, back at the djinn.

"Excuse me, al-Sayeed. Might you tell me if my wish is worthy, or if it can be granted at all?"

He looked up from a handwritten journal or log, the leather cover held on by two pieces of twine threaded through the crudely pierced edges. "I can do that much, yes."

"Would my wish that there were never any vampires in my world be granted?" She chose her words carefully.

"No. You are barely more than human; you do not go deep enough for that."

Sally nodded. She suspected as much. "Would my wish that two specific humans were never bitten by vampires be granted?"

"No. Of the two vampires I see in your heart, at least one appears in Prophecy. Their course cannot be altered. Even if this were not so, again, you do not go deep enough. These two lived and died before you were even born."

She nodded her thanks and stepped away from him. I'm deep enough for things in my own lifetime, she decided, processing the djinn's latest words. It's been a good life, she thought, her eyes on the light once again. I had the love of a good man. I had the American dream. I've even beaten the life expectancy for a woman of my time.

Dying, truly dying, did not scare her. But she had known champions, and she wanted her death to matter. She thought about those warriors, about what she had learned, what Sayeed had said about her presence being immaterial. Sally didn't think that he was trying to get her to make some sort of pansy wish, but that he didn't think her capable of doing any better. Obviously, she couldn't wish Hitler had died at birth. She wasn't 'deep' enough for that. But there must be something….

The sound of her stomach growling brought her out of her reverie. I might have been here for days, she thought, unconsciously rubbing her stomach. It was becoming more difficult to tear her eyes away from the light. She focused on Sayeed, who was perusing what looked like a German language romance novel, a busty blond on the cover.

"Excuse me, al-Sayeed," she said again, her voice soft, her accent more pronounced than it had been in years. "Might a wish that I have a two-month period in my past where I know the things I know now… might that wish be granted?" She would have held her breath if she had any.

Sayeed lay down the novel, which immediately changed into a veterinary textbook written in Cyrillic alphabet. "Yes. Such a wish could be granted." He didn't smile, but the lines framing his mouth eased. "Such a wish could change your life, and your husband's." He nodded to her formally, as if releasing her to her task, then picked up his book.

She stared at the back of his head, at the small white hat for a moment longer, then walked to the lamp. She lifted her hands, pausing to compose her thoughts. The temptation was there, to wish that she would have stayed safe inside her house the night before Henry came home. But they had shared an oddly happy life together. She sometimes thought that, without her misfortune, Henry wouldn't have been as successful. She smiled fondly. He could negotiate the fillings out of a man's back teeth, and that man would still walk across a restaurant to shake Henry's hand.

She might not be deep enough for the big wishes, but she wasn't shallow, either. The life she had with Henry was as much as regular people could ever wish for. She allowed herself one wistful thought of babies, of having children, then let it go. The wish wasn't something she could keep for herself. She took a breath, just to be human, and wrapped her fingers around the handles of the lamp.

Rather than burning, it was cold. Her knuckles turned white, and her arms began to shake. It felt a bit as if she'd brushed up against an electric fence. From very far away, her knees wanted to buckle. And inside her, the vampire awoke, howling furiously within her mind, battering against her will.

Sally focused on a date, on certain knowledge, and on the wish. Her balance gave, and she fell to her knees, but forced her hands to remain on the lamp. _May and June, 2001_. Along her shoulders, the distinct edge of her flesh began to blur. All the nights she had listened to _their stories_ at the kitchen table, outside under the stars. Light shone from her eyes now, their green fading into the white of the lamp. She tightened her grip, bringing _their faces_ to her mind, looking into brown eyes and blue somewhere in all the potentials of time. The demon inside her writhed, the touch of the light hurting it far more than it did his host. The bonds that held her molecules together began to weaken, and her body began to dissolve. But there was still time for the wish, because now there was no such thing as time.

With a whisper, a sigh in the air, Sally's body disintegrated. An inhuman roar filled the room, reaching to all corners, billowing the sheets away from the light, as the demon inside her was slain. The white fabric settled back to stillness, and as the last atoms of her physical form fell from the burning lamp, she made the wish of her heart. Through these things, _that he might have his soul earlier_.

Sayeed's eyes widened, and he turned too late, dropping his book. The Powers That Be stilled for a moment in their ceaseless machinations, aware that something had just been wrested from their control.

Her soul unfolded, its work done, and winged away.

⸹

North Carolina

May 2001

A New Reality

⸹

[Author's note for readers of 'Life Hard': The higher number of vampires Sally has sired is correct in this particular reality, the 'Life Hard' universe. Since Spike won't sire at the behest of the First Evil, some other souled vampire had to sire the same number.]

⸹

The Jelash demon walked along the gravel driveway, breathing in the clean mountain air and shifting his suitcase in his one hand. On his other side, the empty sleeve of his jacket was pinned neatly up to his elbow. Jim's shadow was a puddle at his feet until he stepped onto the lawn and into the engulfing shade of tall, flower-laden catalpa trees. His friends had a long driveway, and for a brief moment, he wished he had another hand to tote the suitcase for a while.

Jim marveled that had been ten years since he'd seen Henry and Sally. The fact that Henry was getting older, unlike him or Sally, probably had a lot to do with it. But he'd do anything for these particular friends, which was, after all, why he was here. She said she needed help.

Stepping onto the porch, he put down his bag and started to knock. "It's open," he heard Sally call from inside. Jim turned the knob and pushed the door inward. She was standing well back from the splash of sunlight, grinning at him. "Come on in, Jim, and close the door so I can give you a hug."

He did so and set his suitcase on the floor a second before Sally grabbed him in a crushing embrace. "It's good to see you," he said, a smile on his own face, when she loosened her grip and he was free to breathe again. Sometimes he forgot how strong vampires were, lulled by their human face.

"You, too," she said, still grinning widely. "I'm so glad you came. Thanks, Jim, so much. Really. How was your flight?" Sally scooped up his suitcase and led him into the hallway.

"Oh, fair, fair," he told her. "Very little turbulence and only one crying baby."

"Did the driver find the house okay?"

"You gave him good directions."

"Do you want the waterbed or the regular mattress?" she asked, pausing between two doors.

"Regular. My back isn't what it used to be." Thinking of it, he stretched a bit. "After my next hibernation, I'm thinking of waking up as a lithe young Asian woman."

"Really?" Sally threw him a puzzled look over her shoulder as she placed his suitcase on the bed. "I thought you were never going to be a woman again, not after that time in Romania." Jelash demons assumed a new form every forty years or so, after a period of hibernation that lasted four to seven years. Most chose to be human. She examined the form he'd been in for so long now, the body of an imposing elderly black man.

"Times have changed," he said. "Might not be so bad to be a woman now. But I'm definitely going to be young, and if I'm short, I'll be able to have two arms."

"That would be good," she agreed, "but don't go shorter than I am. You'll never be able to reach anything on a top shelf. I hope you're hungry, honey, because I've been in the kitchen since yesterday."

"Biscuits?" he asked hopefully, turning to go back into the hall.

"Mm-hmm," Sally said, following him. "Cornbread, too, and croissants. I got the recipe from that boarding house in Paris y'all stayed at."

"How did you find that?" he asked, his eyebrows going up.

"They've got a website," she said simply.

"Well, you make the best biscuits in the world," he said, "but I'll try a croissant, too, since you went to all the trouble." He threw a grin over his shoulder. She would never admit that she was a good cook, but even Sally had to accept compliments on her biscuits. "Say, where's Henry?"

"In the living room." Something in her voice made him look back at her, and his grin faded. Jim walked the few feet down the hallway to see inside the door to the living room. Henry was in a wheelchair, staring vacantly through the window at the pretty spring day outside. Jim looked back at Sally, who shrugged.

"Hey, Henry," he said, stepping into the room. His old friend didn't look up, so he walked around the wheelchair into the other man's line of sight. Henry's eyes slowly tracked from the window to his face, but the expression in his eyes didn't become any less vacant. Jim noticed that he was loosely tied into the wheelchair by a clean sheet wrapped around his middle. His hair was completely white now and thin, showing the pink scalp beneath. Henry's mouth worked for a moment, but no sound came out.

Sally came up on his other side and picked up a glass of water with a straw in it from the coffee table. "Here you go, honey," she said, putting the straw against his lips. Henry closed his mouth around the straw, his eyes still on Jim. After a moment, he seemed to forget the drink, because his lips slackened and a dribble of water ran over his chin. Sally wiped his chin with the hem of the flannel shirt she wore. Henry's eyes went back to the window. "Henry? Honey, look who's here. It's your friend Jim. He was the medic in your unit, remember? During the war?"

They regarded the silent man in the wheelchair for a few moments. Sally set the water back on the coffee table, smoothed Henry's hair, and stepped out of the room. Jim followed her into the kitchen.

"I didn't realize it was this bad," he said, his voice shaky, unable to keep his expression neutral. He'd been the medic in Henry's unit as they fought their way across France into Germany, and they'd become fast friends, staying in touch even after the injury that had taken his left arm and ended his time in the military. He remembered Henry as a tall, lanky soldier, strong from years of farm work, carrying him away from an oncoming tank, or as a businessman in horn-rimmed glasses and a skinny tie, scandalizing a group of travelers by embracing an old black man in a Southern airport lobby in 1965. Henry was the finest example of loyalty Jim could name in his long existence, the way he'd stayed with his wife after she had been turned, through all the slaughter when her demon escaped their control. Now all those fine qualities were gone, the vitality that made him Henry stripped away by time and disease. Humans, he thought, were heartbreaking in their beauty and brevity.

"I hoped he might recognize you," Sally said, a sad smile crossing her face. She busied herself setting the table. "If you still looked like you did in the Army, he might have." During World War II, Jim had worn the form of a white man in his twenties.

"Can he talk?"

She nodded. "A little. He doesn't often, though, only on his very best days now, and it usually doesn't make sense. And he isn't very mobile anymore. I'm beginning to worry about bedsores."

Jim sat down at the table, his legs not up to supporting him. "From what you said on the phone, I knew, but… Man, seeing him like that… That last visit in L.A., he was a little vague, but…" He shook his own gray head. "Alzheimers?" When she lifted her shoulders in non-answer, Jim tried another tack. "How are you holding up, Sally?"

She didn't meet his eyes and got busy setting a breadbasket on the table. "Fine. We've got chicken and dumplings, soup beans, fresh collard greens, and," she lifted the lid from one of the pots on the table, "bouillabaisse. I'll make up a batch of ratatouille tomorrow, after I can get out to the garden. I've already got peppers and onions coming in. They're little, but there's nothing as good as fresh from the garden."

"Sally," Jim repeated, looking at her from beneath lowered brows. Vampires didn't age, but constant stress would eventually show on their features, too. Her red hair was drawn back into a sloppy ponytail, and she looked tired.

"Really, Jim, I'm okay." She shrugged again, and her voice softened. "I miss him, but every so often… he's still there, a little bit. Or maybe it's just wishful thinking." She cleared her throat and took the conversation on a tangent. "I can't rely on Henry to unlock me anymore, and I get lonesome since we're pretty much housebound, but other than that… What do you want to drink?"

"Buttermilk, if you've got it." He watched her walk to the refrigerator. "So, how do you get out of the shackles every day?"

"Oh, I keep the key in a little combination lockbox I put under the bed," she said. "So far, so good." She poured the buttermilk in a glass, then filled a glass for herself from a jar of blood that she'd had warming in a pan of water on the stove. "Well, tuck in."

Jim helped himself to a bit of everything. "Sally," he said, his mouth half-full, "this is ambrosia. How do you cook like this without being able to taste?"

"By smell," she said, taking in a deep breath. "It's cruel. I can still taste some things, but most food tastes like… ashes, once it's in my mouth, unless it's really, really spicy." She lifted her glass wryly. "Or unless it's blood." She swirled the thick, red cow's blood in the glass, her eyes fixed on it, then looked back up at Jim brightly. "So! Enough about me. Tell me about your medical practice. Have you had to patch up either of the Weatherbys lately?"

The afternoon wore on as they talked and darkness fell. Jim helped Sally as she fed Henry and later got him into bed, then they went outside to enjoy the mild night. Sally dragged two wicker chairs onto the lawn, and they settled in comfortably.

"I can't believe this air," he said, pulling in a big breath. "There's not a drop of exhaust in it."

"Just be glad you don't have allergies," Sally pointed out, "because there's a lot of pollen right now."

"Spring in the North Carolina mountains?" Jim asked, looking up at the Milky Way hanging like a garland in the dark sky. "I'm not going to complain about a few sneezes in the merry month of May." He took another deep breath, then looked over at her speculatively. "So, Sally, why did you call me out here? You sounded pretty serious on the phone. Is it Henry?"

"No, it's me." She shifted and met his eyes for a fleeting instance. "I wanted you to help me figure out if I'm crazy." She shrugged. "I don't have any other sounding boards. After that, either way, I'm going to need your help."

His eyebrows lifted. "Well, now you've got my curiosity up."

She looked at her hands for a moment, then met his eyes. "For the past three weeks, I've been having the most vivid, intense dreams I've never had. They're not even like dreams, they're more like visions, or memories. Each time I fall asleep, I see more, and I have this compulsion to act on the dreams, to go find…" Sally took a deep breath and started over. "I'm dreaming about a bleached-blond vampire named…" she made herself finish, "'Spike.'" The name came out like a lump of lead, and she looked over at Jim beseechingly.

"Well, as a standard, I don't think it's going to replace "I Dream of Jeannie with the Light Brown Hair," he said. "It doesn't sound crazy, yet. Dreams are odd things, but if you're thinking of acting on one… I'd like to hear more."

"Jim, are there such things as prophetic dreams? I mean, really?"

He lifted a shoulder. "Sure. There are dreams that come true." Frowning at her, he asked, "What makes you think these dreams are prophetic?"

"I see everything so clearly and specifically; I know his past and his future. They don't even seem like dreams, they're so real. I mean, I really believe this guy, this vampire I'm dreaming about exists, that he currently lives in a crypt in a cemetery in a town called, of all things, Sunnydale, out in California."

He gave her an odd look. "There is a Sunnydale. It's a little town up the coast from Los Angeles. It has sort of a bad reputation. For vampires."

She stared at him for a moment, then shrugged almost angrily. "I've probably driven past a road sign for Sunnydale. That doesn't signify anything. I mean, that part could be my own knowledge. But the rest is… more creative that I give myself credit for."

"Do you think this vampire is… invading your sleep, somehow?" Jim asked.

"No, no, it's nothing like that. These aren't nightmares, far from it. It feels like he's a friend, in my dreams."

Jim's look was assessing. "You did say that you've been lonely."

"Yeah, and who's more friendly than another vampire?" She let her head fall back. "This makes no sense at all. I mean, I've killed every vampire I've ever run across." Her voice went quiet. "All nineteen that I made, plus twelve more." Sally gave her head a small shake. "I don't have some sort of Lestat fixation, you know? Vampires are evil, petty evil, even. If I was going to come up with a dream-friend from my own imagination, I figure it would be human – and female."

"But you feel compelled to go find him?"

She nodded her head, looking miserable. "This vampire, he's… Jim, there's good in him. I mean, that's crazy all by itself, isn't it?"

"No, still not crazy. Is this demon in your dream like you? I mean, does he have a soul?"

She stood up, cupping her elbows as if she could be cold. "You've gotten right to the heart of it. I'm supposed to… I mean, in my dreams, I feel compelled to go to him and tell him to get his soul back."

Jim pursed his lips and tilted his head to the side. "Get his soul back? Souls aren't easy to come by, you know."

She threw her hands up. "I don't know how to get a soul. I mean, I never lost mine, not the way it's supposed to happen when somebody gets turned."

"Soul magic is… iffy."

"Oh, it gets better. The reason I need to help him get a soul is so he can be nice to the girl he's in love with, a human. She kills vampires, by the way. _Her_ name is 'Buffy.' Only, now she's dead, if what I dreamed last night is real." Sally shook her head at the idiocy of it. "If any of it is real." A shadow crossed her face. "He was heartbroken, Jim."

Jim had focused on her earlier words, though, and he licked his suddenly dry lips. "Kills vampires… a vampire Slayer?"

Sally looked over and met his eyes. "Yes," she said slowly, "that's what he calls her. Slayer."

"Sally," Jim said, shaking his head slightly, "have I ever mentioned the Watchers' Council?" When she shook her head, Jim told her about the Watchers' duty to train Slayers that were awakened to their power.

After he finished, Sally looked at the grass between their chairs for a while. "You never told me there was someone whose purpose was to kill vampires."

"I didn't want to worry you. Hidden here in the country, there isn't a chance you'll ever meet a Slayer."

"If parts of these dreams I've been having really are true," she asked thoughtfully, "do you think it means all of it could be true?"

Shrugging, Jim said, "Stranger things have happened, and you can trust me on that. I mean, if anyone is supposed to help a vampire get a soul, it would probably be a vampire that already has one, a vampire who also loves a human."

Sally took a breath. "Would you be willing to stay here and watch Henry while I go on this… fool's errand? I couldn't… there's no one else I'd trust to look out for him."

He blinked. "Sally… you really mean to _go_ all the way out to California to try and find a vampire named Spike who's in love with a dead Slayer and just tell him, go get a soul?" When she shrugged, embarrassed, Jim added. "Okay, yeah, now that does sound crazy."

"These dreams seem more real to me than sitting here talking to you." She sighed, putting her head in her hands. "In fact, in my dreams, he has sat here, a good man with his soul already, talking to me under the stars, impossible stuff like that." Sally looked up at him. "Honey, you're right. Crazy."

"I'll watch Henry for you," Jim said quietly. He stared across the short space at her, wondering at the parallels. This 'Buffy' had died in her dreams, and she was losing her beloved human just as surely. Still… prophetic dreams weren't something to ignore. "I've known you most of your life and, dreams notwithstanding, you're not crazy. Go on, map out your route. I'd planned to stay for a week, anyway."

She closed her eyes, overwhelmed for a moment. "I'll never be able to thank you enough. No driving, though. I'm going to fly out to Los Angeles," Sally said, anxiety in her voice.

"You've already looked into this, haven't you?"

She gave him an apologetic look. "Yes, after you agreed to come for a visit. Jim, I don't feel I have that much time."

⸹

Sunnydale

⸹

Sally drove slowly down Second Street, trying to read the Sunnydale map on the seat next to her, looking for more cemeteries. She'd been through all the crypts in two graveyards, and she was willing to try another before going back to hide from the sunrise in her room at the rather nasty Sunnydale Motor Inn. There were no good hotels in the little town.

The traffic light in front of her turned yellow, and she slowed. Sally couldn't think of the last time she'd seen a stop light controlled by a timer, but she dutifully pulled to a stop at four a.m. on the empty streets and took the opportunity to look at the map more closely. Her head was bent over the passenger seat, so she missed movement halfway down the block that would otherwise have caught her attention, missed the flash of streetlight on blond hair, the glint of a lifted glass bottle, and the flutter of a long, dark coat. A man limped across the street and disappeared into an alley on the opposite side.

Sally looked up. There was another cemetery four blocks up and two blocks over, near the UC-Sunnydale campus. On the map, it didn't look very big. She could finish checking it tonight. For such a small town, Sunnydale had a lot of graveyards.

To her left, a tall structure caught her eye. Puzzled, she stared at the rickety tower, wondering what it was and why it hadn't been torn down yet. It looked like a lawsuit waiting to happen. The light falling on her face changed from red to green, and she pulled out, forgetting about the odd tower. The warm spring wind pushed against it as her car passed, and it creaked. At its base, among the smashed wood and concrete, lay a bouquet of yellow and red tulips, stolen from someone's yard, a white ribbon tying them together.

⸹

[Author's Note: For the rest of the story, please proceed to Life Hard.]


End file.
